The Adventure of the Norwood Consultants
by frozen-delight
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. Sherlock is depressed and refuses to take on any cases until John Hector McFarlane turns up with the request to prove him innocent in what seems to be a perfectly straightforward murder. - A modern-day retelling of Arthur Conan Doyle's "The Norwood Builder" with an actual corpse and a couple of twists of my own. NOW REVISED AND COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

Please note: This is the revised edition of my first ever fanfiction. For all those who've already been reading this fic some short explanations on my revision process:

Mainly I corrected and harmonised spelling and punctuation. Furthermore, I split up long sentences and paragraphs to make the story easier to read. I also changed phrases that I wasn't happy with in all the chapters. The gravest changes occured in the previous first chapter, which is now the second, as I also added a short prologue. I hope that these revisions make the story more enjoyable on the whole.

Thanks for reading this and please feel free to give me some feedback.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, unfortunately, apart from my lively imagination. All credit goes to ACD and Moftiss.

**Chapter 1**

It wasn't unusual for Jonas Oldacre to spend his nights at the office. However, it was unusual for him to feel hot and out of breath in the middle of January.

He'd tried to turn down the heating, but the stifling atmosphere remained. Maybe the heating was broken yet again. Twice in one winter. Intolerable. They would need to call in a different, more competent mechanic this time. He made a mental note to order Sibyl to take care of it in the morning. Then he tried to return to his present task. But struggling for breath made it difficult to concentrate.

Putting down his pen, he walked over to the window of his office and opened it, allowing the cool night air to rush inside. He took a deep breath. It did nothing to make him feel less hot and on the point of suffocating. On the contrary, his throat seemed to constrict even more.

Hastily, he strode back to his desk and poured himself a glass of water. But the water helped no more than the fresh air had done. There was a dull burning in the back of his throat, a taste of ink and fire that couldn't be washed away with the water.

He gasped for breath, forbidding himself to panic. There was no reason for him to feel as though someone was squeezing his throat tightly, strangling him. None at all. He was tired, maybe developing a cold, too, and he'd had a tough day. But he wasn't going to give in to these sensations. He still had a lot of work to do. Sweating and panting for breath would not keep him away from it. Next to an excellent business deal, a bit of breathlessness and discomfort was nothing.

The conversation with Sir Philip Pembroke in the afternoon had been most promising. If he made the right preparations, the company would soon acquire another illustrious client. And knowing that Sir Philip was consulting him would undoubtedly attract further high-class clients. What a splendid deal!

This was the last clear thought in Jonas Oldacre's head before he collapsed over his desk.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

'Cheers, Greg,' said John, clinking together their brimful glasses.

'Cheers, mate,' responded the detective inspector. 'What a shame you couldn't persuade Sherlock to join us.'

'He doesn't really like going out these days, you know. Can't blame him, either. The press have been horrible to him ever since … you know. I'm sure they'd be able to twist a picture of him spending a harmless evening at the pub into some weird new tale of what a dreadfully dangerous psychopath he is.'

'There are way too many Kitty Rileys in this country,' Lestrade agreed with a slight smirk, 'can't even tell the difference between a psychopath and a sociopath!'

John laughed, slopping a bit of beer down his front and bumping against someone right behind him.

They were standing in the middle of a crowded pub as all the tables had already been taken. It wasn't the pub where they usually met for their pints. But Wednesday night was pub quiz night at their local. Both hadn't really felt like doing the quiz, so they'd been forced to choose another location. However, it seemed that they hadn't been the only ones trying to avoid pub quizzes. The pub was packed.

So when John laughed and bumped against someone standing behind him, he no longer bothered to apologise. Waiting for their drinks at the bar had been ample of time to teach him how pointless that was. He'd probably be covered in light bruises once he came back home. And that even though he hadn't spent the night chasing after criminals. He chuckled at the thought.

Becoming serious once more, John continued in a low voice, 'Actually, I'm glad it's just the two of us tonight – I need a break occasionally, you know.'

Lestrade was forced to lean in closer to hear what he was saying over the noise around them.

'A break from Sherlock?'

'Yeah. Things aren't easy, right now. You see, when he came back, everything was too exciting at first, catching Moran and everything, and only when he was safely locked up we actually got a chance to say hi properly. And then I was just too happy to… and he, too. You may think that I'm being a sentimental git, but really, Sherlock was happy, too, to be back home, back at Baker Street, back with me. He's no sociopath, as much as we like to joke about that. He was – happy.'

Lestrade frowned slightly. John, misreading the frown, thought the detective inspector was doubting the accuracy of his statement. He said hotly, 'I'm no idiot, Greg, well, compared to Sherlock yes, but that doesn't count – do you want me to list the evidence? You saw the shape Sherlock was in when he came back – so I forced him to eat, to sleep, to rest, and he didn't grumble about it even once. He almost seemed _glad_ to have someone around to take care of him.'

Lestrade scratched his head thoughtfully.

'No doubts there, John. I just wanted to hear where things went pear-shaped after the initial reunion happiness?'

John realised that Lestrade was making light of matters in purpose to give him an easy way out, should he prefer not to talk about this. However, he was only too ready to pour out his heart to someone who would not only listen patiently but might even understand.

'I refrained from talking properly about things, deferred it until Sherlock got his strength back. Well, then he regained his strength and still we didn't talk. Not only about what happened, but well, generally. And that's the status quo. He just sits around the flat, staring blankly into space. I don't think he's being deliberately secretive. Or that he doesn't want me around. It's just - He's quiet. Too quiet.'

'And being a doctor, what does that tell you?'

'He seems to be in the middle of a deep bout of depression – not the first I've witnessed in him, but certainly the most intense and prolonged so far.'

'So you're worried.'

'Course. He tends to fall back into black moods like this after finishing a case, but then the next case cheers him up again and everything's fine.'

'So you're worried that although he seems in desperate need of a case, he's been turning down all case offerings?'

'He's been _what_?' John spluttered in surprise, slopping more beer down his front.

'You didn't know? I've offered him several cases in the last weeks – actually, I only texted him this morning with the details of what I thought a rather promising one – he just won't take them.'

'But why?' John asked, dumbfounded.

Lestrade sighed and absentmindedly ran a hand through his greying hair.

'Have you heard Sherlock complain of boredom just once in the last couple of weeks?'

'No, I told you he doesn't really speak at all – _oh_!' he exclaimed as the realisation hit him. 'He hasn't been shooting the wall, either. _Oh_. – So you're telling me that this is different, then. Is he still too tired to take cases? Is –'

'No, John, I think he's perfectly fine as far as his physical health is concerned,' Lestrade quickly interrupted him. 'Don't you see? He's afraid of taking new cases because he fears they'll only disappoint him after the thrill and the challenge of Moriarty and his web.'

'Do you mean that he actually _misses_ Moriarty?' John inquired, horrified.

'Well, tell me, John, how would you feel if you'd just lost the best and most exciting part of your life, the part that brought out the best in you?' the detective inspector asked back, sighing again.

'I know exactly how I'd feel – because I've been through it, remember, all those eight horrible months that Sherlock seemed to be dead.'

He took a deep breath, trying not to give in to the bitterness that surged through him.

'Are you saying that Sherlock suffers from Moriarty's loss the way I suffered from his? That's just gross!'

'Don't condemn him, John, dammit!' Lestrade interjected, sounding slightly angry.

It reminded John that the detective inspector felt a certain parental protectiveness towards the world's only consulting detective and readily defended him against John, although John was both Sherlock's best friend and Lestrade's mate.

'He knew what he'd miss once Moriarty and his web were completely destroyed. He did it, all the same, making the world a better place for everyone but himself. You've got no right to condemn him for perhaps the first truly good thing he's ever done in his life.'

'But you're sure he misses him, then?' John asked anxiously.

He didn't know what to do with that piece of information.

'I don't pretend to be fluent in Sherlock Holmes' psyche, bloody hell, no – but I'd wager that every day that he mopes around the flat, he's regretting what he did, at least partly, and wondering if it was really worth it.'

John swallowed audibly. Lestrade stared thoughtfully into the remains of his beer. Someone to their right burst out laughing shrilly, a bright, shrieking contrast to their sombre conversation.

'I didn't tell you this to make you angry at him, mate,' the detective inspector added slowly. 'I just wanted to tell you so… Do tread carefully, if you broach the subject of his faked suicide,' he murmured imploringly, looking up, 'do tread carefully, John.'

Nodding solemnly, John finished his pint.

'How come you know him so well?'

'Well, I've known Sherlock for quite a long time,' Lestrade replied evenly.

'But when we first met, you'd already known him for five years and insisted that you didn't know him any better than I did.'

'Yeah, I did, didn't I? Since then, though, I've had the privilege of knowing Sherlock both before he met you and afterwards. Seeing him with you made me realise many things.'

Resisting the urge to inquire what exactly it was that their friend at the force had realised, John merely nodded and clapped him on the shoulder, taking his leave.

On the tube back to Baker Street John spotted a strange elderly man wearing a turban, at the end of his carriage. He was leaning on crutches and bore a ridiculously large rucksack on his back. His tan indicated that he wasn't an Arabian, so there was no excuse from John's perspective as to why he might be wearing a turban, especially as strays of hairs were visible beneath it. This ruled out that he was recovering from chemotherapy and only left the conclusion that he had to be some kind of weirdo.

Had Sherlock been with him, he would undoubtedly have solved this little mystery immediately, but being on his own, John was left to his own suppositions. He guessed that the odd towelhead was drunk, and possibly homeless, too.

After observing how the stranger blocked the doorway with his large rucksack and refused to step aside when a black passenger wanted to leave the train, getting nasty instead, John knew for certain at least that, drunk or no drunk aside, this man was a prejudiced swine. Honestly, he couldn't remember ever actually witnessing anyone say 'Shut the fuck up, you bloody nigger.' since primary school. The aggressive towelhead liberally repeated the insult several times, so that there was no mistaking his hostility.

John felt inclined to step in, resulting in his being assaulted by a similar string of obscenities –although _nigger_ was substituted by _motherfucker_–, a strong smell of booze and a good shove in the back. Not wanting the situation to escalate entirely, he quickly pushed past the madman in the turban, guided the black passenger safely out of the carriage and walked the rest of the way back to the flat. The cool night air calmed him. He took several deep breaths and wondered what the hell had just happened.

The fire cackled pleasantly as John entered the living room, immediately giving him a warm and homely feeling inside. Sherlock looked up from where he was reading on the sofa and actually almost smiled for the first time in days. His rich baritone quivering with amusement, he remarked, 'My dear John, it's never wise to engage in rows with drunks.'

'I narrowly avoided one, actually. How did you figure it out, though? I didn't actually get into a fight, so what gave it away?' John asked, as always amazed by his flatmate's deductive abilities.

'The fresh air radiating from you and your ruffled hair indicate that you must have walked a greater distance than just from Baker Street Station to our flat, but your nose and hands are not red enough to conclude that you walked all the way from the pub where you met up with Lestrade – therefore: You took the tube, but got off sooner. Why would you get off sooner? Something must have happened inside the train compartment. At this hour of day, drunk passengers bothering you are statistically most likely. It's true, no marks from a fight on you, so other possible explanations have to be taken into account, but judging from the angry, pinching movement of the left corner of your mouth, it must have been a drunk. Why? Because your mouth always does that whenever you think of Harry. So, someone who reminded you of Harry. Now, who would remind you of your drunk sister? A drunk, obviously.'

'Brilliant,' John exclaimed, 'and blunt – as always.'

Sherlock shrugged and added, as an afterthought, 'But there was something that baffled and angered you particularly about him – you're still frowning slightly.'

So John told him all about the turbaned man's racial hostility.

'Can you image that people are still as prejudiced as that, nowadays, in times of the internet, globalisation, multicultural metropolises and all that? I wouldn't have thought it possible.'

'But of course,' Sherlock replied. 'The reality around us may grow more complex, or at least it may seem so to an average mind, and then there's nothing as addictive as simple explanations. Prejudices are so convenient. They make life so much easier. Even idiots realise that, John.'

John chuckled, finally feeling the tension leave him. He prepared two cups of tea and then turned on his laptop. Sherlock returned to his book. After sitting in companiable silence for a couple of minutes, lazily googling a couple of things that he'd meant to look up ages ago, John suddenly remembered his earlier conversation with Lestrade and tensed up again.

Deciding there was no time like the present, he asked directly, 'Do you miss him?'

Sherlock froze. His eyes narrowed dangerously to catlike slits, alight with anger and surprise. But beneath the bright, whitish flashes of fury John made out the more subtle touches of hurt and disappointment.

'Are you trying to imply that I'm _heartbroken_?' Sherlock ranted. 'Planning a big exposé on _SHERLOCK HOLMES – THE HEART BENEATH THE HAT_ because I'm not giving you any cases to blog about? Poor, inexperienced, sociopathic Sherlock,' horribly mimicking John's voice, 'doesn't know what to do with his feelings for a homicidal psychopath who happens to have shot himself in the head. The misguided freak misses a mass-murderer, just imagine that! While you, three-continents-Watson, congratulations, have a string of perfectly normal, boring girlfriends that won't stay with you longer than two weeks – now that must be the height of emotional maturity! What right do you have to judge me? To make assumptions about what I feel or fail to feel? You're worse than that prejudiced drunk with the turban!'

Sherlock jumped out of his chair, all but threw his book onto the coffee table, carelessly knocking over his half-empty cup of tea in the process, and strode towards his bedroom. In the doorway he paused and turned back, his voice cold and cutting, 'Instead of trying to psychoanalyse me, you might want to direct your extraordinary mental faculties towards ensuring that the fire's out before you go to bed. Good night.'

With this, he disappeared and resolutely shut his bedroom door behind himself.

Hearing Sherlock's bedroom door bang shut, loud enough to wake up Mrs Turner's married ones next door, John winced. He could have kicked himself. That had gone _well_. What a mess! He should've heeded Lestrade's warning. True, they'd talked at last, but he'd ruined everything and made sure that there'd be no further talking in the near future. Sherlock was right, he really _was_ an idiot. So much for treading carefully.

Sighing, John fetched a rag from the kitchen and began to wipe up the spilt tea.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Coming downstairs the next morning, John found Mrs Hudson fussing over Sherlock at the breakfast table. A cup of freshly brewed coffee was sitting right in front of the world's only consulting detective and enough biscuits, deliciously smelling croissants and buttered pieces of toast had been piled on the table to feed at least half a dozen starving children.

Seeing Mrs Hudson's merry mothering attempts, John realised that he hadn't been the only one kept awake late last night by Sherlock's melancholy violin playing. He noticed that there was no cup of coffee waiting for him. On top of that, their landlady shot a practically filthy glare at him, when he made his presence known with a simple 'Good morning'. Putting two and two together, it didn't take particular detecting skills for John to work out who Mrs Hudson blamed for the sad midnight serenade.

Thinking it might be easier to make his peace with his flatmate once they were left alone, he decided to reconcile their landlady first. Thus he braced himself and followed her into the kitchen.

As he settled into preparing his own coffee, Mrs Hudson rounded on him, 'What did you think you were doing, upsetting him like that?'

'I'm really sorry, Mrs Hudson, I didn't mean to – '

'All the world's nasty to him right now,' she continued, ignoring him, 'all these horrible false stories in the papers – as if he hadn't been through enough already, when he was away, poor boy. He needs all our support now or it'll break him. So don't you dare question or upset him, young man!'

'It won't happen again. I'll make it up to him,' John said earnestly.

'You'd better,' she agreed, slightly mollified. 'I'm just a silly old thing and rarely know what's going on in that funny head of his, but one thing I can tell you for certain: There are not many people whose opinion Sherlock cares about and you're one of them. If you doubt him, it'll hurt him badly.'

'Mrs H,' John returned in a mixture of embarrassment and fondness, 'I'm so glad that Sherlock's got you, that I'm not the only person trying to protect him from hurt, since I make such a bad job of it.'

Mrs Hudson smiled and pointed out, 'Your coffee's getting cold, dear.'

Leaving the kitchen, Mrs Hudson headed back to her own flat, patting Sherlock gently on the shoulder as she went. Meanwhile John, glad to be back in their landlady's good books, sat down opposite his silent flatmate.

Sherlock was pale, composed, blank as always, well, perhaps a touch paler than usual, if that was possible, for not having slept at all. However, nothing apart from his pallor invited any hasty apologies for John's awkward words the night before. Not knowing how to break through Sherlock's cool exterior without actually breaking him, John decided to wait and to make sure that the detective had eaten properly before broaching the topic again.

But Sherlock seemed to have no intention of touching Mrs Hudson's lavish breakfast preparations, leaving John's doctor persona no choice but to cut the toast up into bite-sized pieces and to feed them to his flatmate.

'Did you know that Lestrade is going to be promoted again? He thinks it's Mycroft's doing,' John began chattering as innocently as he could.

Absorbed as he was in a newspaper article on bee culture, Sherlock opened his mouth to reply and didn't notice that John quickly shoved a piece of toast into his mouth until it was already too late. He shot an irritated glare at the doctor and chewed grudgingly.

When John prattled on about his evening with Lestrade, Sherlock eyed him warily for a while, before his attention returned to the bees, enabling John to trick him into swallowing another piece of toast. This earned him another threatening glare from his flatmate. But with every time that John repeated this little trick of his, Sherlock's glares grew milder, eventually replaced by a fond smile.

The doctor liked seeing this particular smile on Sherlock's face – it was not his warmest or most dazzling smile, but it was certainly genuine, unlike those easy and charming smiles that the consulting detective employed in order to manipulate unwitting strangers during cases. There was nothing blind or infatuated in that smile, it was an honest smile, plainly telling John that he was an idiot, but that Sherlock didn't mind at all. And John was glad that he couldn't see his own face right now, because he was certain that he was grinning like an idiot.

After a properly 'fucked-up' evening and night, this morning was turning out surprisingly good. Yes, it was a very good morning, actually, better than most since Sherlock's return. It might yet be a good day.

However, the shrill ringing of the doorbell downstairs cut through John's happy fantasies of a lazy, comfortable day at the flat, just the two of them, maybe finally managing to work things out in this happy, lazy mood.

'Client,' Sherlock announced curtly.

A client it was indeed, although John felt that this was hardly an apt description for a man who burst into their flat all red-faced and breathless, spoiling all his hopes for a happy, lazy day.

While Sherlock looked at the man, completely unimpressed, John ushered him into a seat and went to fetch him a cup of tea, although he felt no particularly friendly inclinations towards their guest. There was something fake and wild and aggressive about him, something that John didn't like, something that told him that this breathless man was in deep trouble, probably brought on by his own fault.

Once the man had caught his breath, he announced, still agitated and wild-eyed, 'Excuse me, Mr Holmes, for bursting into your flat like this, you mustn't blame me. I'm nearly mad. Mr Holmes, I'm the unhappy John Hector McFarlane.'

He made the announcement as if the name alone would explain both his visit and its manner. But from Sherlock's unresponsive face John gathered that it meant no more to the detective than to him.

'I advise you to breathe in and out very slowly and to drink that cup of tea,' Sherlock said briskly, 'then tell us who you are and what precisely brought you to rush into our flat. You mentioned your name as if I should recognise it, but I assure you that, beyond the obvious facts that you are single, smoker, of a choleric disposition, work at Norwood Consultants Ltd, attend an exclusive golf club close to your company in order to impress your boss, suffer from asthma and received a huge shock when you arrived at work this morning, causing you to run right here and seek my aid, I know nothing whatsoever about you. Since I know every family of importance in Britain and seeing that John here didn't recognise your name either, I conclude that you are not some stupidly well-known popstar or politician whose existence has fortunately escaped my notice. So the question is: Who are you and why are you here?'

Obviously, John was no longer as surprised by his friend's deductive skills as he'd been at the beginning of their acquaintance. But even after all this time, he was still unable to supress an awestruck smile which said 'That was amazing!' loudly enough on its own. Sherlock clearly enjoyed the unspoken praise, blushing and preening slightly as though he still marvelled at John's reactions to his deductions.

The unhappy John Hector McFarlane, however, gaped at Sherlock, momentarily forgetting the reason behind his visit.

'Now, we don't have all day,' Sherlock said impatiently, 'so tell us what you want. Oh and don't be boring.'

'It's just – I'm all that. How did you know?'

'I didn't know, I observed. And I presume that's also the reason you came to consult me?'

'Why yes,' McFarlane spluttered, 'you're my only hope in the world! For Heaven's sake don't abandon me, Mr Holmes!

'Sherlock, please,' the consulting detective interrupted him.

'Ok…' said their guest, momentarily losing his train of thought, before he continued hastily, 'if they come to arrest me before I've finished my story, please, please make them give me time so that I can tell you the whole truth. I'd happily let them arrest me if only I knew that you were working for me outside.'

'Arrest you!' Sherlock exclaimed, the corners of his mouth twitching happily. 'That's great – I mean a _grave _situation,' he amended, seeing John's expression of rebuke.

'They think that I murdered Mr Jonas Oldacre, my boss at Norwood Consultants.'

John frowned slightly. It wasn't the first time that a killer had tried to consult Sherlock, but that didn't mean that he particularly enjoyed sitting in the company of potential or actual murderers. Especially since he had a hunch that in the case of John Hector McFarlane the latter might well be true.

The world's only consulting detective didn't share these scruples and no longer hid his delight at their unhappy client's story.

'So the police are after you right now? Well, Lestrade will be here any minute. Out with it, man, while you can!' Sherlock urged him in a unique conglomeration of gleefulness and impatience, typing with lightning speed on his smartphone at the same time.

'Please, Mr Holmes, you have to believe me, I don't really know how why I'm accused of this murder,' McFarlane implored.

'Yes, yes, it's still Sherlock, on with it. It's already on the local news that Mr Jonas Oldacre, CEO of Norwood Consultants, was discovered dead in his office early this morning by one of the security guards. Cause of death: probably poison,' Sherlock interrupted him, brandishing his phone. 'Now tell me and quickly – where do you come into this? Did you poison him?'

'Mr Holmes -' their client began, but Lestrade chose that moment to burst into their flat, followed by Sally Donovan and another officer from Scotland Yard.

'Mr John Hector McFarlane, I'm arresting you on suspicion of murdering Mr Jonas Oldacre,' Lestrade stated in a neutral voice, nodding apologetically to John and Sherlock.

'Mr McFarlane was about to tell us what happened just now, so if you postpone his arrest for a couple of minutes, you won't need to interview him again back at the force,' Sherlock said calmly.

'I have no idea why you have to listen to a story of what is a most straightforward case of murder,' Lestrade answered.

'Judging by the fact that Mr McFarlane chose to consult me rather than to run away and to hide from the police, I trust that he wants me to hear the story and to help clear up this mess.'

Lestrade's eyebrows rose in surprise and displeasure and he asked, 'Surely, Sherlock, you cannot consider taking this case? There's nothing to clear up and therefore nothing that you can do for Mr McFarlane.'

'I'm not saying that I can do anything for him, but I would still like to hear the story,' Sherlock pouted, reminding both John and Lestrade of a spoilt child trying to blackmail its parents into reading a goodnight story. Much as Lestrade hated the fact that Sherlock knew exactly how to manipulate his paternal inclinations towards the younger man, he couldn't help but give in.

So McFarlane began his story.

'I joined Norwood Consultants two years ago. I'd been looking for a job for quite some time so I was overjoyed when I finally got one. At my position I wasn't in direct contact with Mr Oldacre. Until yesterday, we haven't spoken more than ten words with each other, I'm sure.'

'Earlier, you said that you had no idea why anyone would "really" accuse you of his murder, but some of the words that you exchanged yesterday seem to have made others suspicious. What was the reason that you spoke to him yesterday?'

'Well…' the client spluttered.

'Out with it!' Sherlock exclaimed impatiently.

'I was sacked. I received the notice last week. Ever since then I tried to meet up with Mr Oldacre to convince him to let me stay.'

'Obviously, you thought you wouldn't find another job, rightly so, I should add,' Sherlock commented in his usual brusqueness. 'What was the reason for your dismissal?'

'Friday before last I took a bun from our cafeteria home with me, thinking that all the leftovers would get thrown away anyway. They do. They're always thrown away. Such a waste. Don't you agree? But they said, the management, I mean, that I'd unlawfully taken away corporate property. They called me a thief and said they could no longer trust me and that I was ruining the trust in the organisation as a whole.'

'So yesterday, you tried to convince Mr Oldacre that this wasn't the case. He would not be convinced, you lost your temper. What exactly did you shout at him? Did you threaten to murder him?'

'Well, I might've said that one day he'd be sorry for ruining my life, that one day I'd make him pay for it,' McFarlane admitted meekly. 'But I didn't mean it, of course.'

'Of course not,' Lestrade said sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

'Were there any witnesses to your little outburst?' Sherlock asked coolly.

'Yes, his secretary Sibyl and half the floor, I think. Sybil called the security guards and they threw me out of the building.'

'So, this morning…' Sherlock prompted, impatient at having to worm every single piece of information out of his client.

'This morning I went back to the office in order to pack my things – and then two of the security guards stopped me and told me, "Mr Oldacre is dead. Did you murder him? We're calling the police." I realised that people must have misinterpreted my little argument with Mr Oldacre and now, to my bad luck, he was dead, so then I panicked and rushed here, of course.'

'And now the police will rush you to Scotland Yard, no doubt, since you were stupid enough to make yourself doubly suspicious by fleeing,' Sherlock added drily.

'Anything else you wish to add, Mr McFarlane, before we take you away?' Lestrade asked.

'I didn't do it, I swear I didn't!' he stammered.

'Stop snivelling!' Sherlock commanded unsympathetically. 'From what you know, was it a common occurrence for Mr Oldacre to spend his nights at the office?'

'Yes, but –'

'So, you knew that you would find him there if you went back. Did you go back?' Sherlock continued calmly.

'No, of course not, I didn't do it, I didn't, you have to believe me.'

'Mr McFarlane, calm down! The safest way to make us believe you is to come with us quietly,' Lestrade said in an authoritative voice, making a sign to Sally Donovan that she should now handcuff the suspect.

Turning to Sherlock, Lestrade said mildly, 'Anything you'd like to add to the case apart from the fact that Mr McFarlane most likely went back to the office at night and poisoned his boss in revenge for his dismissal? Open-and-shut-revenge-case, as you like to call them?'

'Is that so?' Sherlock asked.

'What could be clearer?' Lestrade asked, shrugging, and John silently agreed with him. He was no way near as clever as his genius flatmate, but he had the feeling that their client was hiding something and could easily imagine him to be the kind of man to hurt another in a fit of anger.

'To me, nothing is clear yet,' Sherlock insisted. 'I will need to investigate first.'

'Investigate?' Lestrade asked, not so much exasperated as horrified. 'I didn't invite you on the investigation, Sherlock.'

'No, but McFarlane did.'

'Sherlock, you can't be serious – ' Lestrade began imploringly, but meanwhile Sally Donovan had fully stepped into the living room and handcuffed the murder suspect.

It was the first time since Sherlock's return that she had come face to face with both John and his flatmate. She didn't appear to be ashamed of the part she had played in forcing Sherlock to jump from St. Bart's rooftop. On the contrary, she still believed him to be an evil psychopath, as became evident from her scathing words, 'Perhaps the freak was also invited by Mr McFarlane to help him plot the murder in the first place.'

'Oi!' John shouted furiously, ready to punch Sergeant Donovan, never mind the fact that he generally didn't hit women. Lestrade held him back, although he was almost as angry as John, and immediately ordered Sally to leave.

Sherlock had flinched slightly at her words, but then he replied sardonically, 'If I had indeed counselled McFarlane on how to murder Jonas Oldacre, you certainly wouldn't be arresting him now.'

Dragging the handcuffed man towards the steps, Sergeant Donovan briefly turned back and glared at him with such venom that she could easily have made herself a prime suspect in a case of murder by poisoning, 'You can't fool me.'

'I don't need to,' Sherlock returned coldly, shrugging his shoulders in a slightly derisive fashion, 'you do an excellent job of it yourself.'

Once Lestrade was left alone with John and Sherlock, he said imploringly, 'You can't seriously consider taking the case, Sherlock, you just can't!'

'I mean it, I'm serious, I'm taking the case,' Sherlock insisted stubbornly. 'I don't believe McFarlane is the murderer you're looking for and intend to prove him innocent.'

'But what if you can't?' the detective inspector asked anxiously. 'In all honesty, I've rarely encountered a more straightforward case. Did you see the man? Please Sherlock, don't do this!'

But Sherlock merely turned his back to him and focused all his attention on his violin, softly plucking at the strings. As Sherlock clearly meant to ignore all further attempts at persuasion to abandon the case, Lestrade had no choice but to leave him to it. John accompanied him downstairs to the front door.

'For goodness sake, what did you do to rile him up like this? This is madness.'

'I know,' John nodded miserably, 'I messed things up.'

'Brilliant. I did warn you. But well, nothing can be done about that now. So for some reason he means to prove himself, taking the most impossible case ever, God help us all. Be there for him when the truth crashes down on him and he can't ignore it any longer, ok?'

'Of course,' John said, nodding again. He wasn't looking forward to that moment one bit.

'Oh and try to leave through the back entrance, will you?' Lestrade suggested anxiously. 'A whole throng of reporters followed us here. The last thing we need is a headline _SHERLOCK HOLMES INVOLVED IN GRUESOME POISONING_.'


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Once they had managed to sneak out of 221B past the waiting throng of reporters and were safely seated in a cab, John couldn't really bring himself to feel sorry that his friend had taken the impossible case.

Sitting in a cab, driving to a crime scene made him realise how much he'd missed the thrill of solving crimes and hunting down criminals. And no matter how dreadful Sherlock would feel, should he have to admit that McFarlane was indeed guilty, at present he looked the most blooming and dazzling that John had seen him since his return. The familiar keen scrutiny had returned to his light eyes and his lean body quivered slightly with excitement, everything about him ready to sparkle, ready to burn.

The game was on, obviously.

All of a sudden, Sherlock's text alert filled the cab. The consulting detective pulled out his smartphone, gave the incoming text an annoyed glare and put it back in his coat pocket, ignoring the next five texts which arrived in close succession. If John hadn't deduced already that a person so thoroughly ignored by Sherlock could only be Mycroft, the beep of his own phone a minute later would have alerted him to the fact anyhow.

Sure enough, now he had received a text from Sherlock's omniscient big brother. The man never seemed busy enough with running the country, the Secret service and the CSI, and therefore frequently attempted and failed to run his brother's life on top of that.

Annoyed, though for different reasons than his flatmate, John pulled out his phone.

While he had forgiven Mycroft for his involvement in Sherlock's suicide after Sherlock had successfully returned to the living, John still felt a little cold and wary towards the personified British Government. He hadn't been able to determine whether 'helping Sherlock defeat Moriarty' extended to the time when Mycroft had interrogated Moriarty, or whether he'd only helped Sherlock after betraying him to the consulting criminal first.

Sherlock's explanations had been brief, generally, as there hadn't been much time between informing John that he was actually still alive and hunting down Moran, but where he'd mostly managed to be both short and precise, he'd suddenly used the vaguest phrases imaginable once his brother's involvement was mentioned. Thus it irritated John that Mycroft seemed to draw on their previous conjoint efforts to ensure Sherlock's well-being now, when he was no longer convinced that his best friend's well-being was equally near and dear to the pair of them.

_Tell Sherlock to stop ignoring my texts. MH_

He typed back:

_I won't. JW_

'Is my brother annoying you now?' Sherlock asked. 'Just ignore him, he's at the Diogenes Club right now and can't possibly leave due to the preparations for the next EU summit.'

'You mean he can't do anything worse than text us right now?' John grinned, pocketing his phone.

His friend grinned back.

'Well, I suppose he could send along a couple of his minions to kidnap us, so perhaps we should watch out for any suspicious black cars.'

Just then, the cab pulled to a halt and Sherlock jumped out of the car with his usual energetic grace.

John followed him outside and then asked, looking around, 'Where are we? This isn't Norwood Consultants, is it?'

'Excellent deduction, John,' Sherlock remarked drily, 'we're in Brixton. I wanted to have a look at McFarlane's flat first.'

'Do you have a key?' John asked. 'You didn't mention that you wanted to start here.'

'Of course, John,' Sherlock replied, a slightly wicked grin forming on his face that John hadn't seen in a long, long time and welcomed back with delight.

'You idiot, you nicked it from his pockets,' John said, but couldn't help grinning fondly all the same. 'You could've asked him for it, you know.'

'Yes, but it's more fun this way,' Sherlock chuckled.

'Well, I'm only glad that apart from illegally acquiring the key, we're not doing some adventurous breaking in using the balcony.'

'Actually, I did consider that first,' Sherlock admitted, his mouth twitching humorously, 'but then I thought you might disapprove and settled for the key instead.'

While Sherlock unlocked the door and eagerly sprinted inside to take a look at his client's apartment, John sent a quick text to Lestrade, indicating that they wouldn't be coming to the crime scene right away, where he was undoubtedly already expecting them.

As he made his way up the staircase, his mobile chimed with an incoming answer from the detective inspector:

_Do I even want to know what you're getting up to right now?_

John texted back laconically:

_Just the usual stuff. You know what he's like. _

_Then I definitely don't want to know, _came the prompt reply, followed a second later by a second message reading _Ok, just text me when you're coming to Norwood Consultants._

Pocketing his phone, John entered John Hector McFarlane's flat, which seemed to him a perfectly normal flat of a perfectly normal bloke. However, he didn't voice this opinion, still remembering how Sherlock had scoffed at his description of Henry Knight as a 'normal-looking bloke'.

Instead, he asked his friend, 'Find anything?'

'Many things, naturally, but none seem relevant to the case, apart from the fact that there's an acute absence of anything suggesting that he would have murdered someone in any other way than bluntly bludgeoning him to death. No unhealthy addictions apart from smoking, no peculiar sexual preferences, no acute debts, no sign of previous theft. Hardly any social life, of course, not an expression of social phobia, but due to the fact that he always identified with a class that was intellectually and materially superior to him.'

'How can you tell?' John asked admiringly. There were no particularly posh clothes in the wardrobe or pictures featuring their client alongside the mighty and the wealthy that might have induced him to form a similar hypothesis. 'Just because he went to a golf club?'

'He didn't go to just any golf club, but to Highgate, the membership card is on his desk. Very posh, very elitist. Yet he lives in Brixton – clearly he can't afford anything better.'

'So like you said, the golf club is to impress other people? People socially above him?'

'Yes, but the most telling sign is the way he folds his underwear.'

'His underwear?' John exclaimed in shock and admiration.

'Yes, look,' Sherlock said, opening the relevant drawer again. 'He folds them differently than you do, do you see?'

'Yes, but hang on – how do you know how I fold my underwear?'

'We live together – I saw you fold your washing more than once, obviously. But even if I'd never seen it, I would still have known – it's all in your upbringing, you know.'

'So you're saying that my way of folding my underwear isn't particularly posh?' John asked, grinning.

'Nothing about you is particularly posh, John,' Sherlock answered drily. 'Why should your folding technique be any different when your underwear itself is nothing short of atrocious?'

'Atrocious?'

'All those stripes – no wonder none of your girlfriends stayed with you for long.'

'What's wrong with stripes? And what about you bursting into all my dates? And how would you know what kind of underwear my girlfriends like?'

'I've done an extensive study of women's tastes in male underwear. For a case, obviously.'

'How could underwear be relevant to a case?'

'Everything can be relevant, my dear John.'

'Even the solar system?'

'Maybe.' Sherlock cleared his throat. 'A woman's alibi in a murder inquisition depended on it, if you want to know. The man she'd dated was found dead in the morning. She claimed that she hadn't spent the night with him as his underwear put her off. I did some research on the subject and was able to prove her innocent.'

'That's amazing! So – what kind of underwear is appealing to women?' John asked curiously.

'Plain colours, maybe with a highlighted waistband. Patterns are often dreadfully chintzy and stripes in particular look way to homely. Women won't believe that you desire a mind-blowing orgasm when you look as though sitting in a cosy armchair all day is your idea of perfect happiness. Stick to plain colours that make your skin glow, a dark red maybe.'

'So you're saying that a pair of dark red pants will resolve all my problems with women?'

Sherlock grinned wickedly.

'Well, maybe not all of them. Even if your atrocious taste in underwear is overcome at long last, your atrocious taste in women still remains.'

'What's wrong with my choice in – oh, never mind that now. Back to the case. So our client's folding method's similar to yours?'

'Yes and no. His looks as though he'd painfully tried to imitate mine, but there are a couple of subtle failings, telling any experienced eye that he didn't use this practice from childhood on, but only acquired it once he began to study in Cambridge.'

'That's kind of sad for him, isn't it? That he always tried to be something that he wasn't? Is that why you thought that no one would be willing to employ him? Because he seemed so fake? Or is the underwear-drawer-check now an obligatory part of the assessment centre?'

Sherlock chuckled.

'Unfortunately not,' he said between chuckles. 'If people knew how to apply my methods, they could save a lot of money on assessment centres.'

'Maybe you should advertise your website in some business magazines,' John suggested, giggling harder. 'How to find your perfect employee – The Sherlock-Holmes-Method. Now with a special on how to identify your applicant's chief character traits by going through his underwear.'

Suddenly Sherlock stopped laughing.

John hoped that his friend didn't think that he'd been poking fun at his website again. Now was not the right time for Sherlock to go into a huff about that, too. To his immense relief, the consulting detective merely asked, 'What do you think, John, honestly, did he do it?'

'Well – I believe him to be capable of murder.'

'Yes, I noticed that you didn't really take to him.'

'But you don't think that he's a murderer?'

'I agree that he could be a murderer. Enough potential of violence and aggression. But he's not the murderer we're looking for. He seems the type who would smash in his employer's head in the midst of an argument, not someone who would go home first and calmly plot poisoning him.'

'Do we know that Jonas Oldacre was actually poisoned?'

'Not yet – but since it was already listed as cause of death on the news, Lestrade must have suggested it to the journalists, and he's the best of the bad lot. Oldacre can't have been murdered by blunt force. That would have produced enough blood and injuries for every idiot to come to a different conclusion. And Lestrade might even have discovered traces of poison.'

'So death by poison the most likely theory so far. But could he have committed suicide?'

'We can't rule out suicide yet, we'll have to pay a visit to the morgue in order to find out more. Hopefully Molly's already had a look at the body.'


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

'Hi Sherlock, how good to see you!' Molly greeted them cheerfully and blushed as they entered the morgue.

John was under the impression that she would have liked to hug Sherlock but didn't quite know how to go about it. And he was glad that she didn't act on her impulse, because although Sherlock's confused expression would have given him a laugh, he feared that his best friend, intent on the case as always, might have rudely brushed her off. And that would have been regrettable, for the pair of them seemed to get on a lot better ever since Molly had helped Sherlock fake his death.

Sherlock actually deigned Molly with one of his genuine smiles and strode over to the bodies that were displayed on the other side of the room.

'Second on the right. I'm already done with him. My notes are on the stool next to his head,' Molly called after him.

'Jonas Oldacre?' John asked her.

'Yes, I immediately set to work when he arrived, knowing you'd come. Greg… Lestrade I mean,' here she blushed again, 'he said that Sherlock was working on the case.'

Momentarily, John found himself distracted by Molly's blushing cheeks. The thought that there might be something going on between Molly and Lestrade had never occurred to him.

_John, you idiot, somehow I really wonder how you manage to leave the flat without constantly walking straight into a lamppost, given how blind you are to the most obvious signs around you, _he heard Sherlock's voice in his head and smiled involuntarily. _Were you drunk at the Christmas party? _

Good Lord, the Christmas party. Yes, now that he thought of it, he remembered Lestrade goggling at Molly. Back then, he'd been way too distracted by Irene Adler's texts. Now it seemed obvious. Though he was never going to tell Sherlock that he'd only discovered just now that Molly and Lestrade were an item or were well on their way to become one. Sherlock's scorn would scorch him alive.

'It's good, isn't it?' Molly interrupted his musings. 'That he's back working?'

'Yes, or at least I hope so. Has Greg told you that it's a virtually impossible case?'

'Oh yes – but I trust Sherlock. If he's got the feeling that the suspect didn't do it, he's bound to be right. You should trust him, too.'

'But what if somehow he gets it wrong, just once?' John asked her anxiously and quickly cast a glance at Sherlock, who paid no heed to their conversation and was intently examining the corpse. 'I mean, everybody's allowed to be wrong once in a while, even a genius consulting detective.'

'Don't let him here that,' Molly smiled. 'He'd be insulted.'

John grinned in return, then became serious once more.

'Right now, he needs all the positive experiences that he can get. It would be a disaster if he's wrong what with – well everything. I'm worried. I'm really, really worried.'

'Greg was worried, too. And of course I'm worried, too. I always worry about him,' Molly admitted quietly.

'Yes, he does that to people,' John agreed. 'Beneath all his brilliance and that dazzling whirlwind when he rushes through a case and all that charm and arrogance and everything else that takes your breath away, there's this part in him that's just so vulnerable and lost and childlike and every time I get a glimpse of it, all I want to do is hold him, hold him tight, shield him from all harm and somehow make the world better just so that he finally, finally stops hurting - and never ever let go again.'

'I know,' Molly nodded, somewhat wistfully, 'I know.'

Then they walked over to the slab that Sherlock was bent over. When they approached, he looked up at them with a manically pleased grin on his face.

'This is a good one, John, a seven at least.'

'Great, then you didn't leave the house for nothing. Right. No outward signs of violence,' John said, as he inspected Jonas Oldacre himself. 'Very fit, middle-aged, death by poison looking very likely –'

'That's true,' Molly agreed cheerfully. 'Traces of arsenic on his tongue, orally administered. And that's the murder weapon,' she explained, pointing to a pen that was lying next to the body. 'Greg said they found him clutching the pen, so he suspected it might have contained the poison and sent it along with the body. I did some tests and yes – the poison's in the ink.'

'John, text Lestrade and tell him to check the inkpot for finger prints,' Sherlock demanded. 'We can't rule out that our killer used gloves, but it will give us a first list of potential suspects.'

While John texted as requested, Sherlock closely examined the pen.

It was a beautiful, midnight blue fountain pen. On one side, Jonas Oldacre's initials were engraved in fine golden letters. When his friend passed it to him, John immediately realised, though he was by no means a connoisseur of stationery, that the item in his hands must have cost more than his monthly wages as a doctor. Yet the deceased seemed to have been strangely careless with his treasure, as it was adorned by many small bite marks that not even John's barely existent observational skills could possibly miss.

Seeing John's eyes linger on the marks, Sherlock remarked, 'Average minds have the idiotic habit that they can't keep still when they're trying to think – twirling pens or strands of hair or chewing or sucking on something, as in this case.'

John thought of Sherlock pacing frantically through the living room or bouncing a squash ball against a surface for ages, and wanted to add that even superior minds didn't always think while sitting motionlessly on the sofa like an ancient statue. But the bright light in Sherlock's eyes and the almost tender sigh when he continued speaking stopped him.

'To think that someone would observe so simple a habit and twist it into something so deadly – _clever_.'

'Unless he committed suicide in a very complicated way and wanted to make it look like murder?' John suggested as lightly as he could, still dazed by the appreciative gleam that had appeared in Sherlock's eyes when he'd pronounced the word _clever_.

'True, we can't rule out suicide yet, we'll need to check whether he had any reason to kill himself. But I don't quite think that's it. And you, Molly?'

The poor mortician blushed violently at being suddenly directly addressed by Sherlock.

'Oh…' she stuttered helplessly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes impatiently, but his voice was surprisingly kind when he repeated himself, 'What's your personal opinion – murder or suicide?'

Molly visibly summoned up all her courage and replied, 'Murder.'

'Good,' Sherlock nodded. 'One should never form theories without facts, but instincts have the happy trait of picking up on data that the mind hasn't had a chance to unravel yet – John, we need more data!'

'To Norwood Consultants, then?'

'Just so!' Sherlock confirmed brightly, already striding towards the exit.

'I'll text Greg that we're coming,' John said and hurried after Sherlock, who was bursting with energy and had disappeared without so much as backward glance at Molly, never mind a good-bye. Feeling sorry for her, John quickly turned back.

'Thank you, Molly.' He smiled apologetically. 'He's grateful, too, you know. Well, you know what he's like. Some things never change.'

Before Molly had a chance to reply, her mobile pinged. As she checked her latest text message, a delighted grin spread over her face and she blushed more furiously than ever.

'Some things do change!' she exclaimed happily. 'Sherlock says thank you – oh and he wants me to tell you that the cab's waiting. You'd better hurry up.'


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Lestrade waited for them in the entrance hall of the glass panelled office building.

'Anything you'd like to share?' he asked Sherlock.

'No,' the consulting detective replied brusquely.

'So the case is over and McFarlane is guilty?' Lestrade asked mischievously.

'Oh, don't be so stupid, Lestrade,' Sherlock replied with a scowl, as if he didn't know very well that the detective inspector had made this comment for no other purpose than to incite him to speak. 'I need more data. Whose fingerprints are on the inkpot?'

'Oldacre's and his secretary's.'

'That was to be expected. Anything else?'

'Nothing so far.'

'Dear Lord, what have you been doing here all this time? Drinking coffee and chatting up the secretaries?' Sherlock scoffed.

'We were securing the crime scene,' the detective inspector answered gruffly. 'Actually, I could do with a cup of coffee now – John?'

'Great, I could do with a bit of lunch,' John agreed immediately. He didn't even need to look at his best friend to know that he was rolling his eyes, undoubtedly thinking that John belonged to a bizarrely gluttonous species.

'And I could do with some actual investigating,' Sherlock interjected deprecatingly and made his way towards the stairs.

'Sixth floor,' Lestrade called after him, 'and be nice to everybody up there!'

'Yes, mother,' Sherlock harrumphed from halfway up the stairs. Then he turned back towards them and added, 'Oh, Lestrade, Molly says hi.'

Winking impishly, he disappeared up the stairs.

'Did he just wink at me?' the detective inspector asked John with a gobsmacked look on his face.

'Yes, he did,' John confirmed, smirking.

'He _winked_ at me!' Lestrade repeated, still dumbfounded.

'Yes, he does that. It's this magical trick of his – he winks at you and then you're bound to him forever.'

'Blast, now I'm really in the soup,' Lestrade grinned.

'Speaking of soup, let's grab a bite, shall we? Can't leave him verbally tearing everybody upstairs to pieces for too long,' John proposed.

They found a small café around the street corner and sat down for a quick meal. John swallowed his sandwich at wolfish speed. Now that he once more spent his time running around behind Sherlock, his body remembered with alarming exactitude what it was like to pursue cases with his genius flatmate and craved for every snack or nap that was available, long periods of hunger and sleeplessness having obviously left their marks.

Once he'd finished devouring his sandwich, he asked Lestrade, 'So, you and Molly, it's official then?'

'Not quite, but we're working on it, I'd say,' Lestrade answered with a happy smile.

'You might've said – I was really surprised in the morgue earlier…'

'Surprised that a pretty young girl like Molly would fancy a decrepit doter like me?' the grey-haired detective inspector laughed.

'No, no, it's just… I always thought that Molly had this crush on Sherlock,' John stammered.

'Oh, she still does, didn't you notice?'

Astonished, John asked, 'Doesn't it bother you?'

'Not at all. He's Sherlock, after all. Don't we all have a little crush on Sherlock?' Lestrade asked with a good-humoured grin.

John blushed and quickly avoided his eyes.

'It's alright, mate,' Lestrade appeased him. 'Let's pay, shall we, and see to it that he doesn't reduce every person within the building to tears?'

So they paid, walked back to the office building that Norwood Consultants were located in and soon reached the sixth floor, where the company's offices were situated. Quickly assessing the situation, they realised that Sherlock had so far refrained from conducting any interviews with potential witnesses or suspects, thereby leaving all the employees emotionally intact and whole. Instead, he had closely inspected both Oldacre's and McFarlane's offices.

'Find anything interesting?' John asked.

'Little so far. There's a pen similar to Oldacre's on McFarlane's desk, but a decidedly cheaper and less tasteful model. This confirms our theory that he was imitating him, trying to be someone he wasn't. He won't be of any help in the investigation process given that everything about him bears an aura of falsification, therefore making it difficult to establish where his case-related fabrications begin and end.'

'Then how are we going to prove him innocent?' John asked.

'We can't, not directly, that is. The ingenious thing about this particularly clever murder by poison is that it's difficult to determine a time frame during which Oldacre was exposed to the poison. The poison might have been in the inkpot for several days and Oldacre might have ingested it bit by bit. Even if McFarlane had a sound alibi for the time after he was forced to leave the building yesterday, which I doubt, we still couldn't rule him out as a murderer, since he could have injected the poison into the ink at a previous point of time. So what we need to do is prove that every other possible suspect, including Oldacre himself, wasn't responsible for the poisoning.'

'That could take forever.'

'True, it is a challenge. But oh, how I love challenges!' Sherlock exclaimed happily, looking like a child at Christmas.

'Where do we start?'

'Right here in this building. We're looking for someone who knew Oldacre's habits well and had access to the inkpot. We need to interview the employees, they're the prime suspects. Only they had access to Oldacre's office. It's not possible to enter the room in any other way than through the secretary's office, I checked.'

'I'm sure you did,' John grinned. 'So what do we do now?'

'We'll start with Sibyl Vaughn, the secretary,' Sherlock announced and strode over to the secretary's office, John and Lestrade close on his heels.

Sibyl Vaughn proved to be a surprise to John. She wasn't the typical London secretary, perfect hair, perfect figure, perfect teeth, perfect nails. Yet she was pretty in an unconventional sort of way. Her face sported a large, expressive pair of hazel eyes which drew the attention of everybody who met her with the softness and intelligence that they exuded. Even now, that her eyes were red and puffy, they were still remarkable.

Apparently, her boss's death had severely shaken her. Apart from the red eyes, she also seemed unable to control the slight trembling of her hands. Otherwise, she appeared calm and collected.

When Lestrade made the introductions, she immediately said with a disarmingly sweet smile, 'Please, just call me Sibyl. Everybody does,' and proceeded to answer all questions swiftly and frankly.

'When did you join Norwood Consultants?'

'Five years ago.'

'Which job did you apply for?' Sherlock interrupted in his usual straightforward manner, his mind making leaps that no one else could follow.

Sibyl didn't seem to be disturbed by it, whereas John and Lestrade found themselves baffled, once again. They would never have supposed that Sibyl could have applied for any other job than the secretary's.

_John, you moron, _he could hear Sherlock's voice in his head, _isn't it obvious from the way she holds her pen that she finished her studies at Oxford with a first class honours degree and could have every job she wanted?_

'As a project leader – the position that George Dickenson now occupies.'

'Why didn't you get the job even though you undoubtedly met all the required criteria?' Sherlock proceeded to inquire.

'Oh thank you,' Sibyl said with a small smiled and blushed lightly. 'Jonas didn't think that a woman could be trusted with shouldering the responsibility of such a position. He didn't think very highly of women in general.'

'So he offered you a job as a secretary instead. And you accepted.'

'Yes,' Sibyl admitted. 'It wasn't the job I'd been dreaming of during school and university, but it was a job, at least, and it was well-paid. I needed to pay back all the debts accumulated by my education and the job market for graduates back then wasn't very promising, if perhaps not quite as bad as it's nowadays.'

'But in the meantime you must have been able clear your debts and find a more suitable job,' Lestrade said slowly. 'Why did you stay here?'

'Isn't it obvious?' Sherlock snorted. 'She stayed because of Jonas Oldacre.'

'The woman hater?' John asked incredulously.

'Do try to retain the word misogynist for once, John,' Sherlock corrected him scornfully, 'even if it means you'll have to clear a few unnecessary facts from your mental harddrive such as which asinine football club won the last championship. And no, she didn't stay out of masochism; he was her lover, even if that's perhaps the same pathetic thing.'

'Yes, pathetic, isn't it,' Sibyl said with a sad smile, tears welling up in her pretty hazel eyes, 'always the same old story – the boss and the secretary.'

Her smile transformed from sad to self-disparaging.

'I never thought… he wasn't even my type.'

'Did you know that he was married?' Lestrade inquired with fresh interest, sensing a possible murder motive.

Sherlock rolled his eyes disdainfully while Sibyl nodded.

'Naturally.'

'Did you want him to leave his family for you?' the detective inspector continued the investigation.

'No. Not really,' Sibyl said quietly.

'So you weren't really interested in the continuation of your relationship?' Lestrade pursued the interview.

'Oh Lestrade, how much worse can your reasoning faculties possibly get?' Sherlock interrupted him impatiently. 'Did you even listen to her? That's clearly not what she was saying.'

'What was she saying, then?' John stepped in, trying to soothe them.

'She didn't expect him to leave his family for her. He probably offered it several times without really meaning it. He would have been a fool to do it.'

'Why?' John asked.

'I doubt you noticed it, but this company maintains a small circle of very elite clients. Jonas Oldacre comes from a good family, but that the company prospered is mostly due to his wife. Many clients would only have come to him because his wife is a Sandbach. Old money, truly old money.'

'Old money like Holmes,' Lestrade muttered under his breath, causing John to grin.

Sherlock chose to ignore them and turned back to Sibyl, 'You knew he would never leave his wife for you. But you stayed with him.'

'Yes,' she confirmed. 'It may seem strange to you, Mr Holmes, but we were … we were _fine_. It was all fine. Nothing needed to change.'

'Yet now it has,' Sherlock remarked with cruel precision. 'We need a list of all the people who work on this floor or have access to it. And we need to know when the inkpot was last refilled – I'm assuming that was your job?'

'I'll print out a list for you,' Sibyl answered calmly. 'And in answer to your second question: Yes, it was my job to refill Jonas's inkpot. And the last time I did it was yesterday.'

'Yesterday?' Lestrade burst out while John also sat up straighter at this new information. 'Why yesterday?'

Sibyl was in no way startled by this outburst. Sherlock watched her curiously.

'I only got round to doing it yesterday.'

'You have to admit that it's suspicious that you chose to change the ink yesterday of all times, on the day that he was murdered,' Lestrade stated in a no-nonsense tone of voice which he reserved for particularly tough suspects. Or Anderson and Donovan, come to think of it, when they were being particularly tiresome.

'Yes, I agree with you, Detective Inspector,' Sibyl returned levelly, 'but if you consider that I only came back to work yesterday, you won't find it any more suspicious than if I had done it a week ago.'

'You only returned to work yesterday?' the detective inspector asked, a little taken-aback by Sibyl's calm demeanour.

'I was … _ill_,' she murmured quietly.

Now that she mentioned it, the doctor in John noticed that there was an unnatural pallor to her skin that couldn't have been caused entirely by the shock of having her lover die.

'What happened?' he asked sympathetically.

'I fell down the stairs, here, in the building. It was… quite bad. I've been on sick leave for over six weeks.'

'Which hospital were you treated at?' Sherlock asked.

'St. George's, Tooting.'

'What caused your fall?'

'The cleaners had been there – it was still wet and slippery, but there was no warning sign. So I… slipped,' Sibyl whispered, her hands trembling sharply.

'Do you always take the stairs?' Sherlock continued interrogating her, ignoring her obvious signs of distress.

'Yes, I'm the only one who does, I think. I don't have the time to go to a fitness centre, so I make do with the stairs.'

'And you never had a problem with the cleaners before?'

'No, they usually come on Saturday nights, when no one else is in.'

'Is there one cleaning business responsible for the whole building?'

'Yes, Brown & Jackson's Facility Maintenance.'

'If one of the other companies in the building had asked them to come by way of exception on the day of your accident, would they normally have informed you?'

'Yes, there's a secretary network for the building.'

'But you received no such information.'

'No,' Sibyl confirmed in a low voice, hands shaking violently.

'Where did you have the inkpot refilled?' Sherlock asked, abruptly changing the subject.

'At C.H. Chapman's. It's just down the road. I can put the address on the list for you, if you like.'

'Did you always go there for fresh ink?'

'Yes,' the secretary nodded.

'Around what time did you go there yesterday?' Lestrade jumped in, feeling that it wouldn't be professional to leave all the interviewing to Sherlock. For once, the consulting detective actually seemed to approve of his question and didn't interrupt him.

'Around two p.m.'

'And at what time exactly did the argument between Oldacre and McFarlane take place?'

Sibyl paused shortly, trying to recall the time of the incident, and then replied, 'Around four p.m. You can ask the security guards for confirmation, they will probably know the exact time.'

'What did Oldacre do during the afternoon?' Sherlock asked.

'He had a meeting with a potential new business partner in the lounge of The Ambassador.'

'And meanwhile McFarlane waited for him in his office?'

'Yes, he did,' Sibyl nodded.

'Good,' Sherlock said with a pleased smile.

John wondered what was making his friend so happy. Perhaps Sherlock had already solved the case. But no, then he would probably look dreadfully bored right now. So it was more likely to assume that Sherlock was pleased with the fact that the case was steadfastly growing more complicated. Meaning several more days of food and sleep deprivation for John, undoubtedly. And yet he did not mind the lack of food and sleep, well, not really, not deep down, because all that mattered was that right now, Sherlock seemed the happiest he had been since his return.

'Thank you, Sibyl, for your time. You've been very helpful. Unless there's anything else you'd like to share with us?' Lestrade began closing the interview, casting a sideways glance at Sherlock to check if the consulting detective had any further questions.

But Sherlock merely shook his head and stood up to leave.

'No, Detective Inspector,' Sibyl said. 'I'll print out that list for you, then.'


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

'You were impressed with her,' John confronted Sherlock as soon as they had closed the door to Sibyl's office, both incredulous and amused.

'What makes you say that?' his best friend asked him with a genuinely astonished frown – an expression that looked so out of place on his face that Lestrade hastily bit his cheek and ducked away to stop himself from laughing out loud.

'Not that you're interested in looks, apart from your own, that is,' John began explaining, but Sherlock immediately cut across him, 'What's that supposed to mean?'

His friend only shot him a meaningful look and continued, thoroughly unfazed, 'She kept her answers brief and to the point. And you didn't manage to unsettle her by being all…_you,_ although she's still in shock from falling down the stairs. She must have nerves of steel, no less. And she was clever, of course,' John added, as if as an afterthought, 'you like them clever.'

'Oh shut up!' his flatmate cut him off, but there was no bite or brusqueness to his voice. 'You rather admired her yourself. And though I welcome the notion that you are for once drawn to a less repulsive member of the sex, I strongly advise you not to act on your inclinations. She really wouldn't take it all that well, were you to ask her out, given the fact that the man whom she deeply loved has been dead for less than twenty-four hours.'

John chuckled and Lestrade seized the opportunity of putting in the question, 'How do you know that she loved him deeply?'

This time, Sherlock refrained from rolling his eyes or belittling the detective inspector's intelligence and replied straight away, 'It was obvious from the moment she said that he hadn't even been her type.'

'Can we rule her out as a suspect then?'

'No, we can't,' Sherlock laid out solemnly. 'She had access to the inkpot, as she admitted herself, she is certainly clever enough to have thought of this particular method of murder and she also has a motive. She loved him more than he did her. It could be a crime of passion.'

'That's not enough acquit McFarlane of the crime and make her the main suspect.'

'I agree, it isn't, and I'm glad that even by Scotland Yard's meagre standards this isn't enough to find someone guilty. McFarlane also had access to the inkpot and also has a motive. Though he is nowhere near as clever.'

'So you're saying it's more likely it was her than him? Did you see the man?' Lestrade asked in disbelief.

Sherlock shrugged contemptuously.

'Nonsense, Lestrade, you're drawing conclusions where I offered none to you. She could have done it, he could have done it. I'm no judge as to whether a person who announced a crime is more likely to conduct it than a person who didn't or whether all people who love more than they are loved in return tend to murder their respective partners, as statistics don't cast a light on either theory. But I can tell you for certain that looks don't come into this. Do you remember that terrible murderer Bert Stevens whom no one ever suspected – before I investigated the matter, that is – due to his mild-mannered, Sunday-school appearance?'

John made a mental note to ask Sherlock about this particular criminal once they had closed the present case. He was always interested in the cases that Sherlock had solved before he'd known him and planned to put them up on his blog someday.

'You're right, you're right, you're right,' Lestrade admitted. 'Do you want me on my knees or will it suffice to just hold up my arms in defeat? So what do we do now?'

'We need to check all the facts that Sibyl gave us to find out if she was telling the truth in all particulars. We need to interview the other employees. And we need to check out the two external suspects that we now have due to our very insightful chat with Sibyl.'

'Which two external suspects?'

'The ink supply company and the wife.'

'The wife would've had access to the office, true,' Lestrade said, scratching his grey head thoughtfully. 'Are you saying that she found out that her husband had an affair and murdered him out of revenge?'

Sherlock shrugged again.

'Could be. In any case, we need more data.'

'So what do we know so far?' John inquired.

'We know that the poison could not have been added to the ink before two p.m. yesterday afternoon. We know that Sibyl would have had the chance to inject the poison into the ink when she had the inkpot refilled. We also know that McFarlane had the possibility while he was waiting for Oldacre in his office. However, so far we can't rule out that a) the ink was already dashed with poison at C.H. Chapman's or that b) another person than the above named poisoned the ink, including Oldacre himself.'

'So we can rule out all the employees that weren't working at the office yesterday?' John asked.

'Basically, yes,' Sherlock agreed, giving him a small smile for keeping up. 'Unless one of them came here unexpectedly. Lestrade, tell the security team to revaluate the data of the security cameras and the key card controlling device at the entrance to this floor. We need a list of all the people that were on this floor or entered it from 2 p.m. onwards. John and I will start with the other interviews.'

Scotland Yard's best detective inspector knew better than to question Sherlock's decisions and made his way to the security guards.

As soon as Lestrade was out of sight and earshot, John quickly asked his friend, 'There's something that you didn't tell him. What else do you know so far?'

The consulting detective grinned approvingly.

'Actually, I don't know anything else yet. Although I might have neglected to mention –stop giggling!- that I made a copy of the harddrive of Oldacre's laptop and also nicked all his flash drives. Don't look at me like that! It's not strictly withholding evidence. Scotland Yard's idiots simply wouldn't know what to do with the data, so it's better not to involve them in the first place. We need to check if Oldacre was hiding something. Something that could have provoked him into taking his own life.'

'Like what?'

'Either someone else was blackmailing him or the company was by no means doing as well as he tried to make the rest of the world believe. He doesn't seem the type who'd commit suicide for anything of a lesser, more private nature.'

John pondered over everything that his genius flatmate had told him and concluded, 'So our plans for the rest of the day are: interviewing all the remaining employees here, checking out the ink supply store and paying a visit to Mrs Oldacre to discover any other places where Oldacre could possibly have hidden incriminating data, while trying to determine at the same time if she's the killer we're looking for.'

'Very good, John, that's it exactly,' Sherlock praised him and opened the door to another office.

Norwood Consultants was a small company consisting of twenty-one employees apart from Sibyl. By the time Lestrade rejoined them, Sherlock and John had already conducted interviews with seven of them, discarding all of them as potential suspects, although they were far less brief and to the point in their answers than Sibyl had been.

Therefore the consulting detective frequently displayed his impatience, corrected their statements both in grammar and in content and revealed many dirty little secrets about the speakers which bore no connection to the case and which they would have preferred to keep hidden from the world forever.

Five interviews later, Lestrade could cross five further people off their list of potential suspects, while John berated his flatmate for having reduced the last two of these two tears.

'Oh do shut up, John!' Sherlock cut across him. 'If you'd look in a mirror, you'd notice that you're sporting a broad smile. You'd be really worried about me if no one had begun to cry in my presence. If only I'd known that this was all I needed to do to make you happy, I would have set my mind on achieving it an hour ago.'

John tried to look reproving and failed spectacularly, causing the both of them to erupt in a series of giggles.

'Oh boys,' Lestrade reprimanded with a sigh, 'just get a bloody room.'

Another seven interviews and a perceived gross of rude remarks from Sherlock on the interviewees' personal lives later, they were down to two remaining suspects besides Sibyl. These two were the project leader George Dickenson and his assistant, Maureen Stackpole.

'We should talk to Ms Stackpole first, then,' Sherlock said when Lestrade read out the two remaining employees' names from the list. 'She might have some useful information on Dickenson. Assistants always know more about their bosses than vice versa.'

Abruptly, Lestrade stopped dead in his tracks.

'You mean people like Anderson and Donovan know more about me than I about them?' he asked the consulting detective, horrified at the idea.

'Normally they would, but then I tend to tell you lots of things about them that you would just overlook on your own, so I'd say you're even.'

'But that means they do know things!' Lestrade groaned.

'Of course, don't be so obtuse, Lestrade. I'd be ready to bet that everybody at NSY knew that your wife had split up with you before you did yourself.'

Lestrade groaned again.

'And here I thought I was a figure of some authority…'

'Don't worry, no one will think the worse of you. They don't have the brains to do anything damaging to your reputation with the information that they possess,' Sherlock appeased him drily.

John tensed at his flatmate's careless remark. He knew that if there was one thing Anderson and Donovan excelled at, it was smearing someone else's reputation. His many, many visits to a certain graveyard were irrefutable proof of that. But now was really not the time to mention this. They had a murderer to catch, after all.

Maybe Sherlock sensed what John was thinking, maybe he only noticed his friend tense up without realising what had caused it, but he extended a hand to his friend's good shoulder and gave it a quick squeeze before barging into Maureen Stackpole's office.

Lestrade and John followed suit, the first pretending he hadn't noticed Sherlock's small gesture of comfort, the latter trying to hide how much it had both embarrassed and pleased him.

Where Sibyl Vaughn had evoked sympathy and admiration, John was seized with intense dislike and distrust as soon as he beheld Maureen Stackpole. She was a tall and sinewy woman with a thin-lipped, pinched mouth and hawkish eyes. He didn't need to be his genius flatmate to know that she was a childless, ambitious, forty-something single woman whose sole purpose in life was her career.

The murder of Jonas Oldacre had left her entirely unmoved and she displayed little interest in helping them along with the investigation. Due to her monotonous replies, John soon lost interest in the interview. His thoughts returned to the warm touch of Sherlock's hand that he could still feel lingering on his shoulder.

The consulting detective himself also seemed bored by their interviewee, but for once he did not express this with verbal barbs and settled for demonstrating it by tapping away on his phone.

Eventually, Lestrade had exhausted all his questions and turned expectantly to Sherlock, 'Anything else?'

'She's not the killer, if that's what you'd like to know,' Sherlock replied lazily.

'You're sure?' Lestrade asked.

'Absolutely. If he'd died in three months, say, or four, she certainly would have been, but right now, she's not.'

'What on earth are you trying to imply?' Maureen Stackpole said indignantly, a furious glare in her hawkish eyes.

'You're unsatisfied with your present position here in this company and aspired to replace Oldacre as CEO, so far, so good,' Sherlock replied with infuriating calmness.

John couldn't help but think that his friend was doing it on purpose to rile her up.

'Of course I wasn't satisfied. Careers are all about advancement, aren't they? Nobody would wish to be in the same job for the rest of their lives. Well, nobody apart from that poor sweet thing Sibyl,' she added disdainfully.

'And yet you were particularly keen on advancement. Keener than most. Keen enough to attempt to force Oldacre's retired partner into selling you his share of the company.'

In answer to Sherlock's statement, Maureen Stackpole paled considerably.

'That's not true! How dare you insinuate – '

'I insinuate nothing that you didn't insinuate yourself in your emails to him,' Sherlock cut her short.

'But, but…' she spluttered, too flabbergasted to realise that she was giving herself away, 'how did you manage to read my emails?'

'Child's play,' Sherlock grinned, twirling his smartphone in his hands. 'I accessed your account through my phone just now.'

'You mean you hacked into it, you big twit,' John murmured, chuckling.

Lestrade chose to overhear this hint at Sherlock's less than legal acquisition of information and asked instead, 'But if she was so desperate to get the job, what makes you say that she isn't the murderer?'

Sherlock made a show of sighing in exasperation that the detective inspector had been unable to piece the information together on his own before he proceeded to explain.

'Six weeks ago, Ms Stackpole began blackmailing Jonathan Blackwood, Oldacre's retired business partner, but though she has scared him considerably, she hasn't managed to get him to transfer his share of the company to her so far. And now that Oldacre is dead, he will never do it, because Oldacre's share has become his. If you had made yourself acquainted with all the legal documents, you would be aware of this, too. Knowing Blackwood's character like I do and like Ms Stackpole does, it's evident that he would rather let her ruin him eternally in the eyes of the world than forsake the big deal that's dancing in front of him now that he can sell the entire company. Thus Ms Stackpole had nothing to profit from Oldacre's death at the present moment and is not the murderer we're looking for, though you may well arrest her for blackmail.'

Maureen Stackpole's sinewy face was etched with loathing as she rounded on him and spat, 'I did nothing that somebody else in this business hasn't done before. But I'm only a woman and I have to work twice as hard and use twice as many tricks as the men to do half as well – why should I be punished twice as hard as them?'

Sherlock recoiled slightly as she advanced on him.

'Being on the right side of the law doesn't mean being on the side of justice,' he said in a low voice that aimed at sounding sardonic but carried a lingering sadness instead. 'What a tender world that would be! It merely means being on the side of _fact_.'

All of a sudden, it was very quiet in the office. John once again experienced the familiar rush in his veins of wanting to hold Sherlock tightly and never let go. Lestrade swallowed audibly. Not even Maureen Stackpole could think of anything to say.

Collecting himself, Lestrade eventually seized her by the arm and made to escort her out of the building.

'Ms Stackpole, one last word, please,' Sherlock called them to a halt, all austere and unaffected once more. 'Anything you can give us on George Dickenson?'

For a moment, Maureen Stackpole considered her options, withholding information to spite them or giving them information in the hope of helping them solve the murder and to thereby ease her own fate. Eventually, she settled for the latter.

'He's been acting suspiciously for the last three or four months. He keeps his door locked at all times. I don't know what it is that he does in there, but he's not working. I frequently had to finish tasks for him because the deadline approached and Oldacre was complaining.'

'And that didn't happen before?'

'No, it didn't,' she confirmed.

'Right, that will be all, then. Good day to you, Ms Stackpole, try not to pity yourself too much, it won't help. Good day, Lestrade, call us if you get lost on your way to NSY,' Sherlock said, dismissing them with a mocking wave of his hand.

John supposed that he was only putting on a particularly careless show to dispel his earlier display of genuine emotion. But then again, how on earth was he supposed to know what was truly going on inside his best friend's head.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

'You were really hostile towards her,' Sherlock commented drily. 'Aren't you supposed to be the empathic one?'

'Well, she repelled me,' John said, not noticing that his friend flinched ever so slightly at his choice of words.

'You should have been equally repelled by several male employees that we interviewed before her – they were just as invested in their career as she was.'

'They didn't blackmail someone else.'

'They would have stopped at nothing to advance their career. Just think of that greasy young one who married a woman old enough to be his grandmother because of her grand connections and now spends all of his spare time at his club because he can't bear to be near her. That they didn't blackmail someone merely indicates that they didn't need to – they're men, they had the opportunity to rise without applying any extra pressure.'

'Why are you defending her?'

'I'm not defending her. I never liked blackmailers. I'm simply not as prejudiced against successful, independent women as you are.'

John swallowed hard. He was truly lost for words. That was already the second time in the last 24 hours that Sherlock had called him prejudiced. The first time it had happened, his flatmate had been greatly agitated. This time he hadn't shouted at him, but he looked ready to snap any moment now. And John knew that this was not allowed to happen.

They needed to focus on the case. And if they were finally going to have this very difficult, very personal conversation, that had been building itself up between the two of them ever since Sherlock's return, it ought to take place in the familiar cosiness of 221B, just the two of them, not in a public building in front of an anonymous audience. So right now, this conversation just wasn't on.

John desperately grasped for something to say that wouldn't make the situation escalate, but was too overwhelmed by the implications behind Sherlock's words to be able to think of anything neutral. He had never really considered himself to be a prejudiced person. Of course not. He was modern man, lived in London, got on with many different people and had a gay alcoholic sister. Of course he wasn't prejudiced. But Sherlock had mentioned it – twice. And usually Sherlock was never wrong. Sherlock might have a point. But why – if John was indeed prejudiced – why did that bother Sherlock now? It hadn't bothered him in the slightest before his fake suicide. What was different now?

The two friends were saved from their uncomfortable silence by an incoming phone call from Lestrade.

'Lestrade, don't tell me you actually got lost?' Sherlock snorted into his phone.

'Tell your bloody brother to stop texting me!' Lestrade shouted. The detective inspector had to be really annoyed, because John could hear him well enough, even though Sherlock hadn't set his phone on speakerphone. 'He sent me no less than 52 text messages in the last thirty minutes!'

'Just ignore him,' Sherlock replied coolly. 'He only texts because he can't talk right now – he's too busy saving the euro. There's nothing worse he can do right now.'

Smirking slightly, Sherlock ended the call.

'Mycroft can be so tiresome,' he groaned, rolling his eyes.

'Poor Greg!' John joined in with a serio-comical grimace. 'You do realise he's risking his career, life and happiness in letting you work on the case? Mycroft might have him sacked or worse!'

'Mycroft will do nothing of the sort,' Sherlock contradicted him with a very smug expression on his face. 'He's rather taken with him, I think.'

'No! No!' John groaned and cringed. The mental image of Mycroft and Lestrade together was definitely something he would rather have lived without.

Sherlock merely grinned mischievously and knocked on George Dickenson's office door. After a short moment, it was unlocked from the inside and opened, revealing George Dickenson standing on the threshold.

He was a slightly portly man in his early fifties and extremely well-dressed. While Sherlock's earlier explanations on the intricacies of underwear had been well above his head, John could see why Jonas Oldacre would have preferred to employ someone like Dickenson to McFarlane. George Dickenson's clothes emitted the same effortless taste that he had come to associate with the way Sherlock or Mycroft dressed themselves. A choice kind of taste that could neither be bought nor learnt.

_And what does that tell you, John? _he could hear his internal Sherlock's impatient voice. So, George Dickenson came from a good family then, probably even an excellent family, the kind of man that would easily have acquired customers from just as good or excellent families. _Well done, John, _the mocking voice of Sherlock in his head praised him, _took you long enough._

Meanwhile, the real Sherlock only groaned when he saw George Dickenson.

'O God no!' he exclaimed in exasperation. 'Just look at his right sleeve!'

John thought that there was nothing particularly remarkable about Dickenson's right sleeve, save that it had probably proportionally cost more than one of John's entire jackets. At least Dickenson looked just as puzzled.

'Do you really need me to spell it out?' Sherlock asked disdainfully and then proceeded to talk at lightning speed. 'Internet porn addict – yes? The addiction developed three to four months ago – yes? After your wife left you for her fitness coach – yes? Oldacre was aware of your _habit _– yes? In fact, he must have been aware of it for at least two months, given that the IT department checks all the employees computers at least once a month and must have reported it to him when they found out how severely infected yours was – yes? Good, John, come on, we're done here.'

And with these words, the consulting detective strode out of the building, John on his heels, leaving George Dickenson stand speechlessly in the doorway.

'So Oldacre rather fired someone who took a bun with him that would otherwise have been thrown away than someone who spent all his working time watching porn?' John asked his friend once they were back outside on the street.

'Not to mention that he preferred to have an internet porn addict occupying the position of the project leader to a hard-working woman,' Sherlock added with disgust.

'Oldacre was a swine!' John exclaimed angrily.

'That was remarkably astute, John,' the consulting detective agreed and a moment later both of them erupted into a series of giggles which accompanied them all the way to C.H. Chapman's.

Instead of entering the shop straight away, Sherlock first headed into the backyard and began inspecting the dustbins. John followed him with a puzzled expression.

'Oh don't be like that, John,' Sherlock said, his voice a bit muffled, as he was half-way buried in one of the dustbins. 'Rubbish is eloquent, rubbish is – ah! Yes!'

Sherlock emerged from the dustbin, wearing a triumphant grin.

'Go on, what is it?' John prompted expectantly.

'It's never wrong to have a little extra pressure up one's sleeve when wanting to extract information – come on John!'

The consulting detective barged into the shop and demanded to speak to the shop owner. John followed him somewhat more unobtrusively and nodded apologetically at the other customers who looked outraged by Sherlock's behaviour.

'I'm sorry, I must ask you to leave,' the shop assistant said, her voice quivering with anger.

'Unless you'd like me to tell all your customers that you've adulterated your supply of Caran d'Ache with simple Pelikan bottled ink I advise you to find the shop owner at once.'

'Adulterated?' one customer asked in scandalised tones.

'How dare you make such an accusation?' the shop assistant demanded furiously.

'All the evidence is in your dustbins,' Sherlock replied coolly. 'What exactly would you be doing with all those cartons full of Pelikan's bottled ink considering that you only sell Pelikan's Edelstein collection?'

The other customers all left at that point, one of them threatening to sue the shop. The shop assistant burst into tears, the shop owner arrived and Sherlock immediately bombarded him with questions, all of which were promptly answered. Soon they were able to establish that the shop itself hadn't poisoned the ink and that a stranger couldn't possibly have poisoned the ink at the shop, either. This left them with the certitude that the ink must have been poisoned by someone at the office.

'Show-off,' John muttered fondly as soon as they were back outside.

'You must admit, it was more effective this way,' Sherlock said with a grin.

'They might have answered all your questions without all this drama,' John admonished him.

'It would have taken longer, though,' his friend replied and shrugged. 'Besides, you like it when things are a little more dramatic.'

'Right, you nutter,' John assented. Then he frowned, remembering something. 'How did you know you'd find something that you could hold against them, though?'

'When Sibyl mentioned the name of the shop, I remembered that Mycroft used to order his ink there when he first began to work in London. My brother's terribly lazy and traditional. He wouldn't have stopped purchasing his ink supplies here unless he was profoundly appalled by the quality of his purchases. So – easy.'

'Still brilliant, though,' John said with a grin.

Sherlock grinned at him in return, preening ever so slightly under his friend's praise.

'So – once more unto the breach? To the wife now?'

'Yes, to the wife!' Sherlock confirmed and raised his arm in quest of a cab.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

By the time they arrived at Oldacre's house, it was already dark. Yet the dim, faint glow of the street-lamps revealed enough of their surroundings to convince John that they had arrived in a very posh area. Large, suburban houses with big carports and well-kept front gardens greeted them from all directions.

'Wrong, John,' Sherlock interrupted his thoughts as they strode towards Oldacre's home.

It was impressive, spacious and fashionable just like the other houses that surrounded it.

'I didn't say anything!' John protested weakly.

'You were thinking so loudly that every person in this neighbourhood must have heard it in their living room!' his infuriatingly clever friend said drily.

'So where did I go wrong?' John asked, refusing to be freaked out by his best friend's amazing mind reading abilities.

'The well-kept front gardens – that alone is no indicator of a particularly well-to-do family. Middle-class front gardens tend to be the neatest. There the neighbours are always spying on each other, controlling that everyone does his shores in the garden. Members of the middle-class can get away with all kinds of horrid habits and character traits as long as there's no weed to be found in their front garden. The well-kept front garden – the epitome of respectability. What makes these gardens posh isn't the fact that they're well-kept, but that they're fanciful. Look at that artfully grotesque stone arrangement there on the left. Rockeries are only just beginning to grow very popular. They haven't been given a firm blessing by Home magazine yet, so a middle-class wife would never get away with something like that at the present moment. So – obviously posh.'

'You never cease to amaze me!' John exclaimed, grinning. 'I never thought that you'd be an expert on horticulture and house decorating. I'll have you redecorate Baker Street sometime.'

'John, if you really want to live in a posh and trendy apartment, go and move in with my infuriating brother. I'll stick with cosy and comfortable.'

'Right,' John smirked, 'then why don't we limit the redecorating to a bit of cleaning and tidying up?'

'Maybe.'

Sherlock shrugged and rang the doorbell.

'That means no, then. I'm not stupid you know. – Do you actually think Oldacre's wife will speak to us? She lost her husband less than twenty-four hours ago,' John ventured to object, furrowing his brows.

'But of course,' the consulting detective assented just as the door was opened.

On the threshold stood a tall, dignified woman dressed in black, Oldacre's widow, obviously. Although there was no particular beauty in her, she was the kind of woman that would always be noticed whenever she entered a room.

Her piercing grey eyes, her strong, determined movements, the way she held herself: all exuded importance and commanded respect. One didn't even need to know that she was the descendant of a very influential family to feel awed by her in every good and bad way, as if she were a Tudor queen, equally likely to lavish praise or disgrace on her courtiers, to promote or to sentence to death.

'Good evening, Mrs Oldacre,' Sherlock greeted her, extending his hand. 'We would like to ask you a few questions concerning your husband's death.'

Oldacre's widow shook his hand, but said with a frown, 'The police have already interviewed me on the subject when they came to report his death to me this morning.'

Her voice was rich and deep, matching her overall appearance of authority.

'Yes, but we're not the police – fortunately not. We're here to collect all the promising little bits that those idiots missed,' Sherlock explained with a slight smile. 'I'm Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, and this is my friend, Dr John Watson.'

'Forgive me, I didn't recognise you! Of course you're Sherlock Holmes! What a pleasure – do come in!' Mrs Oldacre said, smiling and shaking John's hand, too. 'I'm Louisa Oldacre. I love your blog, Dr Watson. Very enjoyable. Particularly the one about the Aluminium crutch. And I know your brother Mycroft, of course,' she added, turning back to Sherlock. 'We just met the other day at Chatham House. He seemed quite troubled by the European crisis, poor man. His views on the present state of the euro place him in the vicinity of Chatham House rather than Downing Street No. 10. Not that he'd admit it. He's too addicted to power, they always are. Coffee – tea?'

While Mrs Oldacre prepared their drinks in the kitchen, the two friends seated themselves in the spacious drawing room. It was a tasteful assembly of black and yellow, too modern and too glamorous to be entirely comfortable, but suiting the hostess's own impressive style and personality to a striking degree.

'So you knew she'd talk to us because she knows Mycroft?' John whispered to his friend with a teasing smile.

'I would have persuaded her to talk to me even if she hadn't known my brother,' Sherlock insisted with an indignant little pout. 'Do you know that she's the only woman Mycroft ever considered marrying?'

'Really?' John exclaimed, then blushed, remembering that Mrs Oldacre might hear them in the kitchen. He added in a whisper, 'What stopped him? That she was too old for him?'

'Honestly, John,' Sherlock reprimanded, rolling his eyes. 'There's no such thing as "too old" for Mycroft. He was already fifty on the day of his birth. Probably he came into the world with a tie, perfectly tied in a Windsor knot, come to think of it. - The only reason that he didn't marry her was that she was already married.'

'He could give it a go now, then,' John grinned and his friend chuckled in reply. Both sobered up once Mrs Oldacre re-entered the room, carrying their drinks.

'Mr Holmes, what do wish to know?' she asked as soon as they were all settled. 'I suppose I made it on to your list of suspects.'

'You're spot on. Did you kill your husband?' Sherlock asked her bluntly.

Mrs Oldacre smiled.

'I can see why your brother is so fond of you. You have a charmingly rude way of speaking your mind that only younger siblings can ever get away with. I'm an older sister myself, I know these things. But to answer your question: No, I didn't.'

'What did you do yesterday afternoon?' Sherlock asked her, unperturbed, and typed away on his phone.

'I went to Chatham House, at around two p.m.,' she recounted calmly, sipping at her coffee.

'You don't work there on Wednesdays, normally,' the consulting detective interjected.

'Did you just hack into my diary?' Mrs Oldacre laughed, as if she were indeed a queen and Sherlock an adorably funny court jester. 'True, I don't work on Wednesdays, but international affairs… well, many countries on this planet are rude enough not to execute their most crucial plans during my hours of work.'

'How long did you stay at Chatham House?'

'Two hours. My co-workers can confirm this, in case you'd like to check the information.'

'And afterwards you drove straight home?'

'Yes, there was some traffic, so I arrived back here at around six. I didn't stop by at my husband's office, in case that thought entered your mind.'

'It did, indeed. And I can't quite seem to get rid of it. Did anyone see you coming back? Can one of your neighbours certify your story?'

'No, I don't think so,' she admitted calmly and continued to sip at her coffee as if they were merely discussing the weather.

'That's not very good, I'm afraid. We can't write you off as a suspect with so flawed an alibi. You're smart enough to know this yourself. Do you think he killed himself?'

Their hostess's smile deepened.

'How does this work – if I persuade you to believe that it was suicide, you're no longer going to pursue me? Enticing, wouldn't you say? But no, there was no reason for him to end his life.'

Sherlock tilted his head to the side and eyed her with obvious interest.

_Oh God, next thing you know, there are going to be two Holmes' brothers attempting to woo this widow_, John thought suddenly upon seeing his friend's evident respect for their clever hostess.

In order to stop the mental flow of hilarious pictures of his flatmate trying to outwit his omnipotent brother like those two agents vying with each other for Reese Witherspoon's affections in that ridiculous film which his last girlfriend had forced him to watch with her, he quickly inserted, 'We think that he might have been threatened by someone or that maybe the company wasn't doing very well. Did you notice any signs of his being depressed or under pressure?'

'No such thing, no. And if he had been threatened or if the company had been in trouble, I would have known. He had no secrets from me, whatsoever.'

'So you think that if he had been in some kind of trouble, he would have shared it with you?' John asked mildly.

She laughed, a little sadly.

'I never needed him to share things with me to know them.'

'Did you know that he was sleeping with his secretary?' Sherlock asked sharply.

'With Sibyl? But of course.'

John almost choked on his coffee at these news.

'Interesting,' Sherlock murmured, looking pleased. 'Your husband was probably unaware of the fact?'

'Yes, he was unaware of everything. It was a blessing.'

'A blessing?'

Mrs Oldacre took a deep breath. For the first time she looked slightly uncomfortable and troubled by the conversation.

'It was a happy arrangement. My husband was much improved by his intercourse with Sibyl. She softened him – a bit, at least. We got on better than we had for years, he and I. Sibyl was with us, too, very often, like a close family friend. She and I got on very well. I knew, she knew that I knew, and it was all fine.'

John couldn't believe what he was hearing. Sherlock seemed to have less trouble to follow this and merely clarified, 'But your husband thought you would disapprove of his affair?'

'Yes, he thought I would leave him. He was always so tediously traditional.'

'So you had to keep him in the dark?'

She nodded carefully.

'Good, thank you,' Sherlock said, clapping his hands. 'Could we have a look at the house now?'

'Checking for any suspicious details that I might have neglected to mention?' Mrs Oldacre asked with an amused smile and rose to her feet.

'Just so. And I need to find all the places where your husband might have hidden incriminating data – flash drives, notebooks, the like.'

While Sherlock and Mrs Oldacre traipsed around all the places where Jonas Oldacre might have hidden his flash drives, John started to go through the couple's rooms.

Apart from the obvious fact that they hadn't been sleeping in the same bed, there was little knowledge to be gained from them. Nothing unusual about the equipment, certainly no obvious stashes of poison or letters of confession, nothing remarkable at all – until John opened the lower drawer of Mrs Oldacre's night table.

'Sherlock!' he shouted. 'Come here and have a look at this!'

'What is it?' the consulting detective asked, appearing in the doorway.

'Look – baby's clothes,' John said, pointing at the contents of the drawer.

Inside were several beautifully folded sets of baby clothing, made of colourful and very delicate materials. There even was a pair of tiny woollen shoes whose fronts were shaped like the head of a rabbit, complete with ears and all.

'You've never had children,' Sherlock remarked, rounding on Mrs Oldacre, who had appeared behind him. 'Maybe you didn't want to, maybe your husband didn't, maybe it didn't work out. But these are not the clothes that you purchased for a possible child of your own. They're new, yet they're stored at a highly sentimental place. What are they?'

Mrs Oldacre's eyes filled with tears and her deep voice was unnaturally low when she replied, 'Those clothes – I bought them for Sibyl's baby.'

'Sibyl's baby?' John asked thunderstruck, while Sherlock's eyes lit up at the discovery of a fresh mystery.

'She was pregnant. We were both so thrilled. My husband wasn't, naturally. He never really wanted children in general and he didn't want this child, in particular. He was afraid that I'd find out, you know. He put quite a bit of pressure on the poor girl to have an abortion, but she was quite firm. And then, a couple of weeks ago, she fell down the stairs,' Mrs Oldacre gulped and wiped her eyes, 'and lost the child.'

'I'm sorry to hear that,' John said quietly.

He didn't know how to deal with the fact that this majestic, tall woman, so proud and calm when interviewed on her husband's murder, had burst into tears in front of him on the mention of an unborn child's death that had been conceived through her husband's infidelity.

'John, come on, we've got everything we need,' Sherlock said curtly, ignoring their hostess's distress, and made his way back to the front door.

John and Mrs Oldacre followed him, the latter desperately trying to regain her composure. Somewhat awkwardly, they took their leave.

Just as they were about to go, the doorbell rang several times in quick succession that had a desperate rhythm to it. Upon opening the door, they saw Sibyl Vaughn standing on the porch, drenched, shivering, panting, the picture of anguish and misery.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

'Sibyl, good God, child, what are you doing, come inside!' Mrs Oldacre called out with less than her usual majestic dignity and pulled the wretched secretary inside.

John thought Sibyl looked worse than she had during their interview in the afternoon. Not just because she was completely soaked from the rain and shivering accordingly, but also because there was something wild and desperate in her eyes that hadn't been there earlier.

Maybe the realisation that her lover was dead had gradually sunk in after first taking the news with all the numbness of fresh shock. After all, Sherlock had said that she had really loved him. Besides, she was still recovering from falling down the stairs. This new bout of distress could hardly have helped her in her recovery.

In full doctor mode he asked, 'Are you feeling alright? You look unwell.'

Sibyl slowly shook her head and smiled faintly.

'I'll be quite alright, thank you. It's nothing.'

'Are you sure? You were really ill – you shouldn't be up and about yet,' John insisted.

'I'll take care of her, never worry, Dr Watson,' Mrs Oldacre assured him, something that John found less than reassuring.

Reluctant to leave Sibyl Vaughn with her dead lover's wife, but realising that any further protest would be futile, the doctor merely offered his card to the trembling secretary.

'If there's anything I can do to help you, just give me a call. I'm a doctor. So, if there's anything – you know. Just call.'

Sibyl gave him a watery half-smile and took the card. Mrs Oldacre seemed anxious to get rid of them now and ushered them outside as quickly as politeness would allow, meaning Sherlock and John now found themselves in the middle of the vespertine torrents of rain.

'Do you really think it's a good idea to leave them alone?' John called out to his genius flatmate as he tried to keep up with his quick stride.

'Why ever not?' Sherlock asked coolly.

'Surely you can't believe that Mrs Oldacre actually likes her – she could be murdering her right now – now that she's already achieved her husband's murder.'

Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow.

'So you've transferred your suspicions from McFarlane to Oldacre's wife?'

'She could have done it, you said so yourself.'

'She's clever enough, yes.'

'So, we've got two clever women and a not so clever man as the main suspects in a cleverly executed murder. You think that it's unlikely that he did it because he doesn't have the necessary brains. So it has to be her.'

'Why her? Why not Sibyl? Apart from the fact that you find her more appealing, of course.'

'Stop teasing me! She must have been jealous. She can't possibly have been looking forward to Sibyl's baby.'

'So you're saying that she planted the clothes there as a red herring to divert suspicion from herself.'

'Sibyl never mentioned that there was a baby – what if Mrs Oldacre made it up? What if she planned this long beforehand? What if she was the one to order the cleaning company in when they had no business to do so, knowing that Sibyl was the only one who ever took the stairs? Causing Sibyl to fall down the stairs to back up her abstruse baby story?'

'John, don't be an idiot! If she really planned her husband's murder and her cover story well in advance like you say, she certainly won't ruin it now by killing off Sibyl. As for the baby story, we'll only know that it's abstruse once we've spoken to the hospital staff that treated her at St George's. We can do that now! Come on!' Sherlock shouted, dashing off with his trademark energy and enthusiasm.

For once, John refused to follow him.

'Sherlock, no – stop!' John called after him in exasperation. 'No more investigating! I can't keep up with this. I just can't. I'm hungry, I'm tired, I'm soaked!'

Sherlock stopped abruptly and turned back to face John.

'John, I'm sorry,' he said earnestly.

The worst thing about it was that he really looked sorry. John felt his heart break a little on seeing his friend so contrite.

'Sherlock, it's fine,' he said soothingly, desperately.

At moments like these, he was forcefully reminded of the fact that at the very bottom of their relationship nothing was fine between them since Sherlock's return – and he didn't want to admit it.

'No, it's not, don't keep saying that,' Sherlock contradicted him, because at heart he was an innocent and stubborn child, always blurtingly honest and never knowing when it was better to let things rest, forcing John to face issues whose mere existence he would rather have kept denying.

So now they were standing outside in the dark, in the rain, like some trashy movie couple, having the one talk that would decide the course of the rest of their lives. Great. Perfect setting, perfect scenery. Too bad they didn't have a script to follow. Or an audience to weep for them if they got it wrong. It was just the two of them. And the rain. And the darkness. Too bloody bad.

The wan light of a street lamp nearby illuminated Sherlock's pale face, making him seem more surreal than ever, transcendental almost. In the midst of the heavy downpour, a single drop of rain slowly rolled down the consulting detective's sharp cheekbone, like a long-forgotten tear. He looked endlessly sad and lonely, a creature from a different age, at odds with the entire world.

'Just tell me what it is that I'm doing that isn't fine so that I can avoid it in the future. There's no etiquette for coming back from the dead, I'm afraid, and I really don't know what you expect me to do, so just tell me – tell me.'

'Sherlock, it's got nothing to do with –'

'Doesn't it? You said that you couldn't forgive me, that you couldn't accept –'

'But that was right after you came back!' John interrupted him.

He'd expected his friend to have forgotten his furious tirade, well, to have deleted it, more like. And he'd thought that his actions such as moving back in with Sherlock, sharing his entire life with him as he'd used to do spoke louder than his first words of anger. He'd been wrong.

'I was in shock, for God's sake, and bloody angry! I didn't mean it!'

'And just now?' Sherlock asked in a low voice, biting his lower lip.

'You're misunderstanding me!'

'I'm trying to understand. So tell me. Please. I know I can be trying. I've tried, but I can't really change what I am.'

'Who!' John corrected him vehemently.

'What?'

'Who, _who_ you are,' John repeated. 'You're not a thing, a machine, a freak or whatever I might have accused you of in moments when I felt particularly ranty. You're a person and in fact you're the best person that I know and I love every minute that I spend in your company.'

Sherlock stared at him.

'Then why are you leaving?'

'Christ! I'm not leaving, I just want to put on some dry clothes and get down some food. We'll go to the hospital in the morning. Okay?'

John was anxious to get back home. He was cold and couldn't stop shivering. If they stayed here in the rain any longer, they would probably both catch cold.

His friend just looked at him.

'I'm not sure,' he confessed in a quiet voice. 'It's nice having you with me on this case, but what if during the next case or the case after that you've finally had enough? I can't keep waiting for you to leave.'

'Sherlock – I'll never have enough! I'm not leaving – ever.'

'I find it difficult to believe that. All the evidence points in the opposite direction.'

'Evidence? What are you talking about?'

'John, do keep up! All day long you've had reservations concerning the lifestyle of the suspects that we interviewed. For you, there's just one proper course of living. Therefore you can't believe that Mrs Oldacre could actually have entertained friendship for Sibyl or that the three of them could have been happy in their alternative living arrangements. But our life isn't proper, either. And I'm certainly not proper. And yet – you find fault with everyone, but not with me. Although you must, surely.'

'Sherlock!' John exclaimed, appalled.

He was appalled at himself. Put like that, there was nothing proper about his life in 221B. No wife, no kids, no regular job, no white picket fence. Instead body parts in the fridge, chasing criminals in dark alleyways, watching crap telly with Mrs Hudson and acting as his flatmate's colleague, guardian, nanny, brother, husband, cleaner and cook, not to mention his splendid cameo appearances as Sherlock's verbal punchbag and occasional guinea pig.

Absolutely not the life he'd always planned on leading, certainly not the life that he considered the norm. Yet he loved his unusual little family at 221B and never ever wanted to trade it for the life of your average John Doe. Somehow that had escaped Sherlock's scrutiny. Had he actually given his best friend the feeling that he didn't value their charmingly chaotic co-existence?

Judging from the miserable and insecure expression on the consulting detective's pale face, he had done just that.

'We've both had time to think about – this,' Sherlock gestured helplessly between the two of them, 'when we were apart. Why didn't you reconsider? You must have!'

Suddenly John thought he understood at least in part why his friend had objected so vehemently to the various prejudices that he'd expressed during the last twenty-four hours. Apparently, Sherlock believed that all of John's prejudices would eventually turn against him.

John had to admit that theoretically, his best friend's logic was flawless. Yet somehow whenever Sherlock Holmes, logic's greatest champion, was involved, all logic went out of the window.

'Sherlock, if there's anything to reconsider, it's probably my attitude towards other people. Never towards you. I may have been wrong a thousand times, but never about you. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me.'

Sherlock was still biting his lower lip, looking unconvinced.

'But why? What could you possibly want with me?'

John gulped, an icy feeling settling in his chest that had nothing to do with the rain and the cold. This was definitely not the right moment to have _that_ particular conversation. One strained conversation in the midst of this torrential downpour was more than enough.

Pushing away the thoughts of everything that he might want of Sherlock, he said, 'I like having a laugh with you when nobody else understands what we find so funny. I like sitting in 221B with you, not talking, not having to say anything, just being in the same room with you, enjoying that it feels so much like _home_. I like arguing with you because you answer me back like no one else ever does… I could continue this list forever. I'm not going to, though, because I'm starving and I'm cold. But you should know that I really like chasing criminals with you. Of course I do. Today's been brilliant. It's just – I'm growing older and my body's a bit out of practice when it comes to 24/7 crime-solving, so I'm done in for today. I need a bit of food and rest. And as your doctor, I think you need those things, too. But that doesn't mean that I don't look forward to continuing our investigation first thing tomorrow morning.'

He smiled at Sherlock, hoping he'd convinced him. The consulting detective stared at him for a couple of moments, before he nodded and gave John one of his genuine lopsided half-smiles.

'Alright,' he murmured, 'alright,' and lifted his hand to employ his magical cab-hailing skills.

On their way back to the flat they stopped at an Indian restaurant in order to get some takeaway. Then they rode back to the flat in companionable silence, engulfed by the smell of curry and wet wool.

Now and then, John caught Sherlock smiling at him. When it happened for the fourth or fifth time, he ventured to ask, 'What is it?'

'It's just – no one's ever... uh. What you said… was… uh… good. So… uh – thank you,' Sherlock confessed with all the awkwardness of a tight-lipped British bloke and a high-functioning sociopath.

'You're welcome,' John replied earnestly, choosing not to dwell on the dark past that his friend's words hinted at.

For that would just lead to another tense and sad conversation and they had definitely had enough of those for the time being. After all, they were two grown-up British men and all this articulating one's feelings was thoroughly embarrassing. It was high time for them to get out of their wet clothes, to fill their empty stomach with much-needed nutrients and to push their heart back from their sleeve to the place where it belonged.

Unfortunately, all of John's perfectly reasonable plans for the rest of the evening were spoilt upon arriving in 221B. On the sofa in the living room sat the nation's foremost potentate and killjoy, Mycroft Holmes, sporting one of his formidably correct suits and an even more formidable frown, one hand lazily twirling his umbrella, every thread of his immaculate tie expressing contempt towards their bohemian life style.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

'Sherlock. John,' Mycroft greeted them with a nod and a frown, as if they were being received in audience and had turned up in attire that left much to be desired.

'Piss off, Mycroft!' Sherlock returned dismissively, dropping his wet coat and scarf onto a nearby chair. 'Undoubtedly it's of grievous consequences to us all, though mostly so to your enormous ego, that you failed to make the prime minister see reason in the euro crisis, but John and I have far better things to think about right now than to sympathise with you.'

'The prime minister? The euro crisis?' John asked, amazed, also shedding his wet coat.

He silently cursed Mycroft for the unfortunate timing of his visit which made it impossible for him to cast of the rest of his equally soaked clothes.

Mycroft merely sighed and slowly twisted his umbrella.

'Well, I suppose your particular friend was right, after all. You'd find considerably more support in Chatham House than in Downing Street,' Sherlock quipped as he reached for John's laptop.

'You visited Louisa Oldacre?' Mycroft asked, inclining his head. 'Do I need to go and apologise to her now?'

'No need, we were on our best behaviour,' Sherlock replied sardonically, his eyes on the laptop screen. 'You might wait with your apology for a couple of days until the police arrest her – John thinks she's our murderer.'

Mycroft Holmes' cool, penetrating gaze flicked to John.

'Any proof?' he asked.

John needed no imagination to discover the threat behind those words. Obviously, nothing, nothing whatsoever that he, a plebeian mind and ill-connected individual, could put forward, would stand the critical examination of the omnipotent British government.

'None so far,' he admitted grudgingly.

'I'm not surprised,' their guest informed them with a supercilious twitch of his right eyebrow. 'Because there is none to find.'

'How would you know?' Sherlock snapped, actually looking up.

'I had a look into the case. It's transparent. You should drop it, Sherlock. You're wasting your time.'

Even though he hadn't seen Mycroft Holmes in quite a while, John already felt the urge to punch him again. He always hated it when Mycroft was patronising his little brother, but after the conversation he had led with his friend only just now, he was feeling particularly protective of him. The only thing that stopped him from doing anything worse than balling his hands into fists was that he honestly wanted to hear what Mycroft had discovered.

Just as curious as John, Sherlock now dropped any pretence of not listening to his brother.

'You mean you glanced at the police report?' he sneered.

His older brother rolled his eyes in exasperation.

'No, I had some of my people check McFarlane's recent internet history. Not pretty, I assure you. A lively testimony to his moronic but malignant mind. He actually googled phrases such as "How to kill your boss". This won't look good in front of a jury, you realise.'

'But it doesn't actually prove that he killed Oldacre!' Sherlock burst out angrily, beginning to pace in the living room, laptop abandoned.

'Sherlock, don't play bona fide, it doesn't suit you!' Mycroft exclaimed.

He had also started to raise his voice and actually rose from his chair to tower in front of his little brother.

'We both know that if James Moriarty were still alive, John Hector McFarlane is just the sort of man that would have turned to him for help. It doesn't matter whether he actually killed Oldacre, though I, for one, am convinced that he did. What matters is the fact that London's streets are safer with him locked away. You'll never succeed in proving him innocent and frankly, it is beneath you to even try. So for once in your life, stop playing detective and grow up!'

The urge to punch Mycroft steadily increased as John was forced to listen to him. Especially since he noticed how Sherlock paled at his brother's harsh words. He raised his arm, dropped it, raised it again, alternating between the wish to defend Sherlock and to give him the chance to defend himself.

'So what?' the consulting detective scoffed, clearly agitated. 'You think that rather than _playing_ detective, it's preferable to – '

He stopped himself in midsentence by slapping a hand across his mouth. All the remaining colour drained from his face and his eyes widened as he realised what he'd been about to say. The next moment, he practically ran from the living room, slamming the bathroom door shut behind himself.

John stood rooted to the spot, the arm that he'd just raised once again falling aimlessly to his side.

It didn't take a genius to work out that Sherlock had been about to mention Mycroft's involvement in his fall. And to realise that his flatmate's hasty retreat, not so say frenzied flight, was born from his adamant will to never ever blame Mycroft for said involvement, no matter how guilty he might be.

Before John had recovered enough from his shock to either check on Sherlock or to finally go through with attacking his pompous older brother, their landlady's furious voice rang across the room, 'Mycroft Holmes, get the hell out of my flat!'

It spoke volumes that the man who practically was the British government obeyed her without a word of protest.

There was a visible crack in his mask of calm superiority. The umbrella that he usually brandished like a sword trailed lifelessly after him and his head almost seemed bowed as he exited the room.

If John and Mrs Hudson hadn't been so fiercely angry at him, they might even have pitied him. For it was evident that despite all his pride and his lack of respect for his younger brother, Mycroft Holmes didn't need Sherlock's accusations to blame himself.

'Bugger him!' Mrs Hudson muttered darkly.

Then she turned to John, all maternal and fussing, 'Are you dears alright? You're all wet! Off to the shower with you, young man! I'll make you some nice, hot tea.'

Later, when the two flatmates were back in the living room, both freshly showered and dressed in warm clothes, John finally gobbled down their Indian takeaway. He had reheated it in the microwave, after disposing of other less edible items that had been placed in there before. Sherlock stubbornly ignored the takeaway and stuck to the tea that Mrs Hudson hat prepared for them.

After watching his friend stab the keys of John's laptop at lightning speed for some time, John said, still indignant on his friend's behalf, 'Your brother's a right bastard.'

For some strange reason, Sherlock didn't offer the obvious reply, a sarcastic 'You're only noticing that now?'

It worried John. Only an upset Sherlock would willingly forgo one of his glib witticisms.

Instead, Sherlock mumbled, 'Everybody's a bastard.' Only to add, as an afterthought, 'Though some naturally so.'

And that was Sherlock, one hundred per cent.

Relief and genuine delight in his friend's Wildean pun caused John to giggle so hard that he almost choked on his chicken tikka masala.

Once he was done eating, he asked Sherlock if he needed help with anything. However, the consulting detective merely hummed noncommittally and waved him off with his left hand, while the right continued to dance gracefully across the keyboard. So John seated himself in front of the telly and zapped through several dull Thursday night shows, before his increased frequency in yawning prompted him to call it a night.

'Good night, Sherlock!' he called out as he made to leave the living room, but there was no response from his consulting friend. He hadn't expected one, either.

'You should go to bed, too,' he added, knowing that Sherlock would definitely ignore this.

However, climbing up the stairs, a soft murmur of 'Good night, John.' caught his ears.

Molly had been right. Some things had changed since Sherlock's return. And not all for the worse. With a happy smile and heavy limbs John sank on his bed and almost immediately fell asleep.

The next morning, after having changed into fresh clothes and having vigorously brushed his teeth, since he'd been too tired to do it the night before, John shuffled into the kitchen. He turned on the kettle and then poked his head into the living room to see Sherlock pacing around the coffee table.

He looked as immaculate as always, the git. John couldn't help but envy him. No one looking at Sherlock would think that he'd spent the entire night awake, whereas John, who had slept for several hours, looked old and worn and weary as if he'd pulled an all-nighter. Life was truly unfair.

'Morning,' John called out to his flatmate, before he returned his attention to tea and toast-making.

A couple of minutes later he joined Sherlock in the living room and handed him a cup of tea.

'Did you get anywhere with Oldacre's files?' he asked, sipping on his own tea and munching his toast, and then wanted to slap himself for this stupidly redundant question.

He could already hear Sherlock censuring him, _Really John, what exactly is it that you carry on your shoulders – an orange? Even you should be able to make the logical leap that since I'm no longer working on your laptop, I must have discovered something, for otherwise I wouldn't have abandoned it._

The real Sherlock began quite similarly, 'Really John,' only to continue, 'is your brain a sieve? I just explained it all to you.'

John smirked.

'Would you mind explaining it again, while I'm actually in the room?'

Sherlock muttered something that sounded a lot like 'Hardly my fault you weren't listening.'

But then he deigned to share everything with his flatmate that he'd discovered during the night.

'Jonas Oldacre fudged figures to dress up his balance sheet.'

'So the company _was_ in trouble then? It wasn't doing as well as he said?'

'No, the company was doing just fine.'

'Was he embezzling money, then?'

'No again.'

'Then I don't follow you.'

'Don't you see John – oh well, you probably don't, never mind. The balance sheet that Oldacre based the company's tax declaration on is slightly different to the one that he presented to the company's equity owners and the general public. Very, very subtle differences that you only notice if you compare the two of them for an extended period of time. Which none of the equity owners or clients of Norwood Consultants did, I'm sure. Oldacre's goal was to make the company seem less interested in yield maximisation and more focussed on solving their clients' individual problems. Remember what kind of a company Norwood Consultants is, what kind of clients it works for: very elite and illustrious people who want to feel that they're in good hands, and not in the greedy fins of a shark. So Oldacre paid taxes on the actual profit that the company realised, but at the same time he fed his equity owners and clients with a slightly smaller figure of profit by subtly shifting positions in the balance sheet. Neat, don't you think? He knew what he was doing. Cunning, elegant even.'

'You admire him for deceiving hundreds of people?' John asked incredulously, reopening a conversation that they'd already had far too often in the course of their acquaintance.

Somehow it never grew old.

Sherlock rolled his eyes in exasperation.

'I merely admire his method. I admire it when actions are cleverly or elegantly executed, but that doesn't mean that I admire the action itself. We've been through this before, do keep up, John.'

'Do you want some toast?' John quickly changed the subject.

'Honestly, John,' his friend huffed impatiently, 'I've already repeated myself far too often this morning. Do you really need to hear me say again that I don't eat while I'm working? We've got far better plans for today than for me to stand around here all day playing parrot.'

'Off to Sibyl's hospital then?'

'Just so,' Sherlock confirmed, putting on his coat and scarf. 'And pack an apple, just in case. Would be a shame if we had to put a stop to our investigations just because you become peckish.'

John grinned as he shrugged on his coat.

'You're a brat, you know that, right?'

'So you keep telling me,' his friend retorted with his trademark half-smile and sprinted down the stairs.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

The entrance hall of St. George's hospital in Tooting resembled that of any other NHS hospital: white, plain, impersonal, uninviting. In the air there was the faint odour of disinfectant and overcooked sauces that any average nose would immediately associate with a hospital. The distinctive NHS atmosphere was completed by the distant beeping and buzzing of various machines, scarcely perceptible for the ears and yet curiously omnipresent all the same. Ears as trained as John's were even able to distinguish between an ECG-recording here, a heart monitor there. To him, the place felt comfortingly familiar.

Sherlock seemed equally at ease. Admittedly, he had never worked in a hospital, but throughout his lively medical history, he had probably seen most of Britain's medical institutions from the inside.

With a slightly less buoyant and decidedly more sedate gait than usual the consulting detective approached the reception desk, all smiles and professionalism. Once again, it frustrated John to no end how easily his friend could adopt a different persona – and how easily other people responded to it. For him, Sherlock at his most selfish and sullen was a lot more intriguing and likeable than this sham of a trustworthy copper with a penchant for flirting.

He couldn't help but hate everyone who seemed to disagree. Such as the perfectly nice girl at the reception desk who needed no more than a fake smile, a slightly simpering voice and a quick flash of one of Lestrade's badges to immediately arrange a meeting with the nurse who had mainly been responsible for Sibyl Vaughn during her stay at St. George's.

They were shown into a small, private office. While they waited for the nurse's arrival, John said, 'Your acting talents never cease to amaze me. Like the rest of your _expansive arsenal of abilities and aptitudes_, in case you still remember that incredibly long fan mail that you received a couple of weeks ago.'

'Why would I remember a pre-pubescent girl's trashy poetry?' Sherlock scoffed, back to his wonderfully impossible self, and stretched languidly in his chair.

John grinned impishly.

'Because you're incredibly vain and you felt secretly flattered.'

'I'm not vain! I'm merely equipped with a healthy awareness of my own superiority,' his friend huffed indignantly.

'We could also call it a more than healthy dose of the Napoleon-complex,' the former army doctor quipped in return, never tired of a little verbal sparring when there were no murderous cabbies to shoot or oversize assassins to chase.

Ever the twelve-year old, his genius flatmate pushed out his lower lip in an exemplary pout.

Having successfully diverted Sherlock's attention with his teasing, John ventured to say, 'You know what impresses me most? You have all that knowledge, all that talent, and yet you only use it to solve cases, never to obtain any benefit for yourself. Was there ever a period in your life when you tried to… Well, the acting, you know? Did you ever do it for real?'

Sherlock forgot that he was still supposed to sulk and rolled his eyes.

'You really couldn't be any more eloquent, John, could you? Using acting and _for real_ in the same sentence? What does that even _mean_? You know I've only been on the stage once and that was for a case – if that's what you wanted to find out with your half-witted half sentences. Not exactly a kiss on the Blarney Stone.'

'Sorry for not holding a Ph.D. in rhetoric like you. Are you trying to convince me of your superiority by insulting my intelligence even more often than on an average day? I'm quite in awe of that magnificent brain of yours already, thanks a lot. - Anyway, what I was trying to say with my insultingly poor half sentences: I meant in real life. Did you ever try to … to seem normal? Did you feel the need to disguise - in school, maybe, or in university because … because you thought that people wouldn't accept you otherwise?'

Sherlock merely shrugged. John realised that was all the answer he would ever get.

Shortly afterwards, Sibyl's nurse entered the office. She was as neat and nice as any good nurse and answered to the name of Nancy Bolingbroke. At first she was reluctant to give them any details on her patient's injuries and treatment. She also refused to show them her files.

'It does you credit to value discretion so highly,' Sherlock interrupted her with a gentle smile, easily falling back into his police officer persona, 'but as this is a murder investigation and your former patient is one of our prime suspects, I'm sure that she would gladly take this breach of confidentiality if it helped to strengthen her defence.'

Nancy Bolingbroke blushed, flustered.

'Of course, of course. I'll tell you everything I can to help you clear her name. I'm sure she would never murder anybody!'

This statement caused John to relax in his chair. It was a relief to think that he wasn't the only one who readily dismissed Sibyl Vaughn as a suspect. Though he didn't believe that his detecting friend was actually any more convinced of Sibyl's guilt than he was.

'She was a good patient then, I take it?' Sherlock asked.

'Oh yes,' Nancy Bolingbroke nodded eagerly, 'she was. Quiet, undemanding, polite and really sweet. Didn't cause us any trouble. Did as she was told. The kind of patient one always hopes for.'

'She was hospitalised after falling down the stairs?'

'Just so. Terrible accident. She was lucky she got out of it so lightly. She might've died. Fractured ribs, severe head trauma, bruised kidney and other minor internal injuries.'

'Anything else? Everything is important to our investigation.'

'She miscarried.'

John gasped in surprise while Sherlock let out a low whistle.

'Sorry,' Nancy Bolingbroke said, perplexed, looking from one to the other, 'is that important?'

'It confirms the statement of one of our interviewees,' Sherlock informed her with a civil nod.

So Mrs Oldacre hadn't invented the story of Sibyl's pregnancy. John had been so sure she had. He felt slightly stupid and disappointed at the same time – similar to what he had felt when he had seen his clever cat theory disproved by Sherlock in the Connie Prince murder. So the baby clothes hadn't been lying in that bedside drawer as a cunning cover-up of her crime, but as an actual present.

What did that mean? Had Mrs Oldacre really been alright with her husband's affair? She said that they'd been fine. Yet if it had all been fine, why wasn't she mourning her husband? Because whatever she was, the woman that they'd met the previous evening had most certainly not been upset by her husband's death. What then? Was she still guilty? Had she plotted the murder together with Sibyl, perhaps? No, Sibyl had clearly been upset. Distraught, even. So had Mrs Oldacre done it? But why would she have if she hadn't been jealous? Or had it been McFarlane, after all? None of it made any sense.

Sherlock's clear baritone cut through John's confused musings.

'How far advanced was Ms Vaughn's pregnancy?'

'She was already gone five months, the poor dear. She suffered cruelly. Mothers-to-be always take it hard when they lose their child, but Ms Vaughn was particularly upset by it. It had us all worried.'

'In what way?'

'We couldn't fix it, you see. It always makes one feel so helpless when one wants to help – but can't,' Nancy Bolingbroke sighed and wearily rubbed her temples. 'We could tend to her injuries and mend her bones, but we were unable to make her better. She was tearing herself apart, on the inside. When she had recovered enough to leave the hospital, we recommended that she see a psychologist, as she'd clearly sunk into depression. I hope she followed our advice. She was in such low spirits when she was discharged. I hope she'll get over it, eventually. Such a tragedy for someone so young and so sweet. One of my friends lost her baby a while ago. I know what it's like. I felt so sorry for her. For both of them. I really hope that she soon recovers from this terrible blow.'

'Anything else you can give us?' Sherlock asked, surprising John with his patience. He would have expected his friend to interrupt their interlocutress at a much earlier point. 'Did she receive any visitors?'

'When she was just out of surgery, a man came to inquire after her. He said he was her boss. Middle-aged. Respectable, I suppose. I didn't like him, though. Sorry. But I thought him rather horrible. He only wanted to know what had happened to her baby. When we told him that she'd miscarried, he just left. Wouldn't go in to see her. The baby's father, no doubt. Made me think of Henry VIII in that nice new novel that I read last Christmas. Blaming his wives for their miscarriages. But who does that nowadays? What a horrible man. And she was so sweet. She deserved someone better, surely.'

'Anyone else?'

This time, the consulting detective didn't manage to hide his impatience.

'Sorry, got carried away a bit,' the nurse sputtered and blushed. 'Several of her colleagues came to visit, I think, and then there was this lady who came in to see her every day. They seemed to be really close friends. I don't know if she was family. An aunt, maybe.'

'Can you describe her to us?'

'Very tall, very dignified. I was a bit scared of her, to be honest. She watched all the proceedings with a most critical attention, sort of making me feel as if I were doing something wrong. Sometimes I thought she might've been a doctor herself.'

'Good. That will be all. Thank you for your time, Ms Bolingbroke, you have been most helpful,' Sherlock stated with a short nod and swept out of the room.

John followed him, still feeling dazed by all that he had heard.

By the time they were back outside on the street, he had gathered his wits together enough to exclaim, 'Oldacre was a swine!'

'Perfectly accurate yet again, my dear John,' his friend concurred, 'though the broader public would disagree. This morning's papers were full of obituaries mourning the loss of _a most respected member of the public_.'

'That's sickening.'

Sherlock smirked.

'Not quite as sickening as the report on the investigation into his murder: _Scotland Yard's Detective Inspector Lestrade and his competent team are following up the clues with their accustomed energy and sagacity. _Sagacity. Next thing they're going to award the Nobel Prize to Anderson.'

John chuckled. He would never understand how Sherlock managed to go from dead serious to sardonic to light-hearted quicker than a flash of lightning, but it suited his own ready humour and easy-going disposition. Not to mention that it made life considerably more bearable. There were only so many gory crime scenes that one could take in before having to start giggling. In matters of life and death a bit of joking was never amiss.

'Never mind,' John commented between chortles. 'If NSY don't manage to solve the case within the next two days, all the papers are going to bash their heads in and insult them as the biggest morons in the history of police investigation.'

'Thinking of Anderson, that might be the first true sentence that the papers have printed in decades.'

A cab pulled up in front of them and the two friends got in. Sherlock gave the driver their address and leaned his head against the cool window panel. He seemed deeply in thought. Probably, he was mulling over everything that Sibyl's nurse had just told them. John knew better than to disturb him.

'Was there anything in Ms Bolingbroke's notes that she failed to mention to us?' Sherlock asked after a while.

'Why are you asking me that?'

'I did all the talking, leaving you plenty of time to read her writing upside down. You always do that.'

'True, I can never seem to help it. Maybe Ella was right about those trust issues.'

'Would be the first thing she'd ever been right about.'

'True. Anyway, there was nothing else in the notes.'

'Good,' his consulting friend replied and returned to his thinking.

However, a moment later Sherlock's phone rang, raising him from his reverie.

'Lestrade?'

On the other end, the detective inspector said something that caused all the colour to drain from the consulting detective's face.

'Okay, we'll be there in half an hour,' Sherlock snapped and hastily ended the call.

He redirected the driver to New Scotland Yard. All the while his fingers twitched uncontrollably and anxiously prodded his left arm, desperately craving for nicotine patches that weren't there.

'What happened? What's the matter?' John asked, alarmed.

His friend carefully folded his flittering hands in his lap and took a deep breath.

Then he replied in a low voice, as if he didn't want to hear himself say it, 'The security team has now finished analysing Wednesday's CCTV footage. The footage shows John Hector McFarlane re-entering the building at nine p.m. that evening.'


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

Never had the ride to New Scotland Yard seemed so long.

The number of red traffic lights was agonising, the behaviour of the consulting detective even more so. He stayed obstinately silent, not once commenting on the route that their driver had chosen as was one of his more insufferable cab-ride habits, but it wasn't his thinking silence. It was frankly alarming. John felt that his nerves would be frayed and threadbare like an old rug by the time they arrived.

Being greeted and led to the interview rooms by a horribly smug Sally Donovan did nothing to alleviate his worry and distress. Sherlock ignored her. He also ignored Lestrade. He merely sat down on one of the chairs in front of the observation mirror and waited.

John smiled apologetically at the Detective Inspector and quizzed him about everything that had been discovered from the CCTV footage. It appeared that there was nothing irregular in the comings and goings at Norwood Consultants apart from John Hector McFarlane's return. Mrs Oldacre had definitely not dropped by on her way to or back from work on Wednesday. Nor had the footage generated any new suspects that they had failed to consider so far.

It was rather damning, John had to admit. The only thing that would have convinced him at this point that McFarlane wasn't their culprit would have been an exasperated sigh from his best friend, 'But of course he went back there, do keep up! He's an amateur horticulturist as evident from the fingernail of his right index finger and he'd forgotten his Mammillaria spinosissima in his office – don't you ever observe?'

Or something the like. But there was nothing. Only silence.

Five minutes later, John Hector McFarlane was being led into the interview room.

Lestrade didn't waste any time pussyfooting around and immediately took their suspect to task, 'In your story of events which we recorded on the day of your arrest you stated that you spent Wednesday evening at your flat after being forced to leave the edifices of Norwood Consultants. Do you have anything to add to that?'

McFarlane shrunk back from the detective inspector's stern glare.

'No, sir,' he said, his voice wavering slightly.

'Are you sure that you didn't go out again during the course of the evening?'

'Yes, sir. I was tired and angry and in no state to do anything better than watch a bit of telly.'

'Then why does the CCTV footage show you re-entering the company building at nine p.m. that night?'

The suspect froze in his chair, his expression a trademark deer-caught-in-the-headlights.

'I will ask you again: Did you go back to Norwood Consultants on Wednesday night?' Lestrade asked, his voice gruff and slightly intimidating.

McFarlane gulped audibly.

'Yes… yes,' he stammered. 'But it's not what you think! It's not! You have to believe me!'

'I find it a little difficult to believe you when I've only just discovered that you wilfully omitted important facts in your first statement. The best you can do for yourself right now is to answer all our questions fully and truthfully. There's no point in trying to conceal things. Why did you try to withhold that you went back to the company at nine p.m. on Wednesday?'

The suspect turned bright red.

'I…I didn't think it would be important. It's … embarrassing. For me.'

'Embarrassing? Incriminating, too, maybe? What was your purpose in going back there?'

'You wouldn't understand –'

'What were you doing? Answer plainly.'

'I went there…. to return… the pen,' McFarlane stuttered, squirming in his chair.

Upon hearing this, Lestrade clicked his tongue, John could not help but gasp and Sherlock balled his hands into fists.

'The pen? Which pen?' Lestrade swiftly continued the interrogation.

'Mr Oldacre's pen. I needed to return it to him.'

'Why was it in your possession?'

'I must've picked it up during our fight in his office. I only noticed that I had it when I arrived back at my flat.'

'And then you immediately set off again to return it to its owner. Why? Could you not have waited till morning?'

'Well, I knew that Mr Oldacre would still be there. He often worked late. He often worked the entire night. And the pen was very precious to him. He constantly fiddled around with it while he was on the phone or he sucked on it while he was thinking through some contract or other. He couldn't function without it, I think.'

'How philanthropic of you!' Lestrade scoffed. 'You were worried that he wouldn't be able to function properly – a man that you were very angry at and had just threatened to murder? Forgive me if I'm not convinced. Try again – and this time, the truth, please.'

McFarlane shuddered and took a deep breath, the reddish tinge of his face darkening.

'I… I didn't want anybody to think me a thief, sir.'

'You returned the pen because you didn't want anybody to think that you'd stolen it?' Lestrade asked incredulously.

'I'm not a thief, I'm not!' McFarlane insisted anxiously. 'I never stole anything in my life. I wasn't stealing that bun, either. I took it because I thought it didn't matter. I'm no thief, no, definitely not!'

John cringed in his chair at McFarlane's pathetic protestations while Sherlock hung his head, a gesture of defeat that broke the doctor's heart.

'I never accused you of being a thief, Mr McFarlane,' Lestrade said brusquely, leaning forward in his chair. 'I'm only trying to find out whether or not you're a murderer. You say that you knew that Mr Oldacre liked to suck on his pen. You say that you returned his pen to him. Why not just admit that you're guilty?'

'Guilty?'

'The pen was the instrument of murder, the method – poison in his inkpot. You spent plenty of time on your own in Mr Oldacre's office on Wednesday, waiting for him. Did you add poison to the ink?'

'No… no,' McFarlane stammered, more and more distraught by the minute.

'Look, Mr McFarlane, this doesn't look good. Several witnesses heard you threaten Mr Oldacre and we know from your internet history that you did some extensive research on ways of killing another person, not least on poisoning them.'

'Bloody Mycroft!' Sherlock muttered between clenched teeth.

'The best you can do for yourself right now is to cooperate and help us close this matter as quickly as possible. Did you poison Mr Jonas Oldacre?'

'No… no,' the suspect mumbled weakly, too exhausted to defend himself any longer.

Lestrade sighed impatiently. John understood that he didn't want to spend hours and hours of interviewing McFarlane before he finally confessed to the crime, wasting time and resources that could be utilised in other cases.

However, John never found out whether Lestrade managed to press a confession out of the suspect during the continuation of this interview. His friend suddenly rose from his chair and stalked off, leaving the worried doctor with no other choice but to sprint after him.

In the lift he sent a quick text to Lestrade, informing him that they'd left. Sherlock didn't say anything and refused to meet his eyes. John couldn't remember having ever seen his friend look quite so dejected. And he had no idea how on earth he was supposed to make it better. Little did he know that more trials lay ahead of them.

Outside, a throng of jeering reporters was waiting for them. Someone must have informed them that they were at NSY. Someone evil. Donovan, maybe.

During the last twenty-four hours, John had completely forgotten about the press's previous harassments, only to be forcibly reminded of them now, at the least opportune moment.

The journalists closed in on the pair of them, flashing their cameras and shouting insults such as: 'Mr Holmes, what is your involvement in the murder of Jonas Oldacre?' 'How dare you still show your face in public?' 'Are you insensible to the more than 2000 people who've signed a request to have you sectioned?'

Sherlock did what he did best: showing off his intelligence by belittling and embarrassing those around him. However, disclosing the darkest secrets of those hassling him didn't induce them to back off, ashamed or indignant. Instead they closed in on him even more, hurling abuse at him more furiously.

Now Sherlock slumped down, utterly clueless as to what he was to do, like a child that delighted in playing Harry Potter and suddenly discovered that without the clever help from his well-meaning parents his spells and charms had no effect whatsoever. Helplessly, he stared at the contorted faces surrounding him.

He'd always been able to make people leave him alone – gladly. With little effort on his part. Now that this wouldn't work, he was lost. A guileless child on the playground at the mercy of bullies.

Feeling his heart might break all over again for the umpteenth time in the course of this ill-fated investigation, John put a protective arm around his friend, trying to shield him from the incensed mob of journalists. His only thought was: _I need to get us out of here. Quickly._

Fortunately he spotted a sleek black car waiting just behind the crowd around them. Mycroft! Thank God for the omniscience of the British Government!

Drawing himself up to his full height and mustering his best 'That's an order, corporal!'-look, he dragged his friend towards the car. His soldier persona had the desired effect on their assailants: The throng of reporters drew back a little, allowing them to reach the black car.

John quickly pushed his limp friend inside and then sank in next to him, slamming the door shut. Only when the car took off did he allow himself to gasp and to break into perspiration.

Before the shouts of the reporters had died away entirely and before he had completely recovered his breath, his mobile pinged. It was a text from Lestrade, instantaneously followed by two further messages from Molly and Mycroft.

_Are you two alright? I'm so sorry, mate._

_Greg told me everything – I'm so sorry! How's Sherlock? I could bring over some fresh toes if you think that would cheer him up. Lots of love, Molly xxx_

_John, tell me what to do. MH_

All the while Sherlock remained silent, a lifeless shadow slumped in the back of the car.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

'Sherlock, I want you to go and get dressed – we're going out!' John announced an hour later as he strode into the living room where his friend was still perched on the sofa, mute, deaf, motionless, sporting a doleful expression, like an ancient statue of Niobe.

Sherlock actually obliged him and looked up with a frown.

'I don't need your pity, John,' he said curtly.

'Pity? I want to go out and have fun. I'm only asking you to come with me,' John defended himself.

His flatmate scoffed.

'Really? And since when is putting on a suit part of your going-out-schedule, seeing how uncomfortable you are with wearing suits? You never wear a suit when you're going out for dinner or for a drink at the pub. So – this evening's undertakings require that you dress up. Could be the theatre, concert more like it, though. In fact, most likely the London Philharmonic's concert in the Royal Festival Hall, preceded by a dinner at my very favourite French restaurant, which happens to be situated in spitting distance of Southbank Centre. It also happens to be the only restaurant where I've never been known to decline eating. So, dinner at my favourite restaurant and a concert – not exactly your typical passions and pursuits. You feel awkward in posh restaurants and the only time we ever attended a concert together you actually fell asleep during the second half. Your idea of fun? No. So you're doing this as suggested by Mycroft to please me. How do I know that you've been in contact with Mycroft? Well, there's the telling fact that only Mycroft could have named the restaurant to you, as _we_'ve never been there. Then there's also the fact that I know tonight's concert to be sold out, as I tried to procure tickets for it some time ago. So how did _you_ manage to acquire seats that weren't available? Mycroft, obviously. Now why would you get in contact with my brother and ask for his help when you were really furious at him last night? You must have been really worried about me to overcome your anger at him. Self-evident. Conclusion: All of this is an elaborate scheme of yours and Mycroft's to keep me entertained throughout what you fear might be a _danger-night_. Now isn't this a textbook example of pity?'

Uncomfortably, John shifted from one foot to the other.

'Did you mind my going to Mycroft?'

Rousing Sherlock from his previous petrification, inducing him to sprout all kinds of deductions was more than welcome, but he sincerely hoped that he hadn't upset him even further along with it.

Sherlock shook his head with a sad half-smile.

'We can stay in, of course, if that's what you'd prefer,' John said hesitantly.

'No, it's… it's okay. Give me a minute,' his flatmate answered and quickly left to dress in his bedroom.

A moment later he re-emerged, his appearance seemingly unaltered but for the dark crimson shirt that he had discarded the previous blue one for. The new shirt added a soft glow to his otherwise ethereally white skin, imparting a tinge of warmth, life and humanity to the aloof detective who fancied himself a machine.

It made John feel his friend's present pain all the more keenly. Sherlock was flesh and blood and suffered just as much under disappointment as anyone. And the fact that he hadn't shut himself up in his room, pretending these feelings of dejection didn't exist, was consistent with his greater willingness of sharing everything with John, not just his flashes genius, which had manifested itself ever since his return.

John was determined to make sure that his friend would never regret opening up to him. He would be there for him whenever Sherlock permitted it.

'Stop staring!' his flatmate interrupted his musings.

Barely a second later John was startled by foreign hands attacking his collar, an all too familiar high-cheekboned face suddenly mere inches from his own.

'Christ! What are you doing?' he exclaimed, jumping back in surprise.

'Making you presentable,' his friend stated calmly and continued to work on John's tie. 'That knot will never do. What were you aiming for? Windsor? It's a disaster. You're so well-trained in knotting ropes that I'm frankly amazed that your knowledge of tying ties doesn't even deserve to be called rudimentary. Besides, it's incomprehensible to me that you should own so many ties and not know what to do with them. Maybe you should follow my lead and refrain from wearing ties altogether.'

'If I had a dainty neck like yours…' John said teasingly. 'But sadly that's out of the question.'

'Now, _that_ is infinitely better,' Sherlock said and stepped back with a satisfied smirk.

John quickly examined himself in the mirror and realised that his flatmate's nimble fingers had worked wonders. Never before had he looked so elegant. His tie and his entire suit suddenly seemed a lot more expensive and tasteful.

'You're amazing, absolutely, bloody amazing!' he cried out in admiration.

'No need to start praising me for being able to tie a tie just because my mind's obviously no longer up to scratch – I'm not that desperate yet!' Sherlock cut across him, visibly affronted. 'What's next, _mother_? Fondling me for being able to put on my shoes on my own?'

John was afraid that he'd already ruined the evening with his careless praise. He expected Sherlock to now lock himself up in his room, but to his great relief, his friend was still willing to accompany him and things went better than he had dared to hope for.

Sherlock was rather silent and despondent throughout, but at least he'd left the flat and deigned to eat a couple of bites at his favourite restaurant. As for John himself, knowing that his tie knot was of the utmost elegance helped him to feel slightly less ill-at-ease and out-of-place, first at the posh restaurant, then in the Royal Festival Hall.

They arrived early enough at the latter to leave John plenty of time to acquaint himself with the night's programme. Apparently, this season's motto was 'Wanderer', focussing on the experience of travel and foreignness expressed in music. Accordingly, the night's programme consisted of Wagner's overture to the opera Tannhäuser, Tchaikovsky's Tempest and Strauss's Don Quixote.

John was familiar enough with Shakespeare's Tempest from his schooldays to guess what kind of experiences of travel and foreign customs Tchaikovsky had set into music, but the other two pieces meant nothing to him. Glancing at the bill, he quickly grasped that the opera Tannhäuser centred around a man who spent some time in some kind of magic mountain with the goddess Venus, getting high on sex and heathendom, and couldn't hide his new-found pleasure in both when he returned to his saintly bride, causing her to die of shock.

John thought that such a strong reaction to the discovery that her fiancé had actually had sex and had enjoyed it was simply laughable. He wondered that people nowadays, whose morals were so different, still bothered to deal with such an obsolete subject. But he didn't voice this opinion, lest Sherlock should be a desperate admirer of Wagner's and mortally offended by such boorish reflections.

'Says here in the bill that the first piece is Wagner. To celebrate the bicentenary of his birth. Do I know him? Do I need to know him? Have you ever played anything that he wrote?' John asked instead, looking up from the bill.

'No to all three. I don't consider myself a Wagnerian. There's no art in his compositions, just plenty of artifice and filth, a perpetuum mobile of orgasm.'

'Sounds promising, that,' John grinned.

A second later, he felt every urge to facepalm on seeing how his companion's face fell at his words. This evening was all about making Sherlock feel better, not even more defective.

So he took his friend's hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. Sherlock's hand was cold and fragile, startled by the foreign touch, like a little bird in winter.

'Your hands are cold,' John said sympathetically and held on, warming his friend's hand in his own as they approached their seats.

When the concert began, John quickly realised that Sherlock's description of Wagner's music wasn't off the mark. Wagner's music was heavily sexualised indeed, a continuous pulsation and yearning, repetitive and yet more intense with every repetition, constantly striving for release.

Unbidden, the image of Irene Adler masturbating to the sound of Wagner and the thought of Sherlock presented itself to him. He could not get rid of it again and blushed deeply with embarrassment. It was a relief when the overture was finally over.

Tchaikovsky's Tempest afforded him with a lot more pleasure and a lot less mind porn. There was real action in the orchestra, action that could be identified as a furious storm even by someone as little educated in music as John. Besides, there were some very beautiful horn solos, sounding like a comforting memory and a happy promise of what was yet to come, making him think that maybe, maybe if he'd chosen the horn instead of the clarinet, he might have been a lot more invested in music.

Then, maybe, he might have been better equipped to discuss the first half of the concert with his friend during the break while they strolled through the foyer with a glass of champagne in hand.

Unfortunately, not having taken up the horn and discovered his passion for classical music, John could say little more than 'It was nice, very nice.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but otherwise refrained from reprimanding his companion.

Instead he shared his deductions on several concertgoers nearby, before launching into a brief summary of Don Quixote, as John had never read the novel and only vaguely recalled something to do with windmills.

'Don Quixote is a Spanish nobleman of the Early Modern Age. Having read too many chivalric novels, he tries to revive the tradition of errant knights. He sees the world like no one else does, so everyone else thinks that he's crazy and makes fun of him. He discovers beauty, adventure and goodness in a bare, ugly modern world. He upholds ideals that those around him have carelessly abandoned. They don't understand him and treat him like a curiosity, a freak of nature, to be exhibited and ridiculed in a zoo or a circus. It's in human nature to abhor what is different, especially if it's _that_ kind of different that holds the mirror up to nature. They'd be damned if they ever took him seriously. It's so much more convenient to point a finger and to laugh. And so they do. The only person to support him is his loyal servant Sancho Panza. He grounds him with his down-to-earth wit and never-ending array of proverbs and believes in him. They travel together, see much and are teased by many, until at last Don Quixote gives up, returns home, burns all his chivalric novels and dies, disappointed and disillusioned. He means to change the world but fails, whereas the world expects him to change and fit in, which he can't do, either, not without giving up his life.'

'That sounds very – sad,' John said thoughtfully, unwilling to reveal how much the story reminded him of his own friend.

Sherlock shrugged quite nonchalantly.

'Yes, and yet there are ample of funny moments that make up for it. If you ever thought that we had fun during our _adventures_, as you keep on calling them, that's nothing next to the tumultuous amusements of Sancho Panza and Don Quixote. You'll see. Or hear, more like it.'

Once again, Sherlock proved to be right and John immediately made out the fun that he had mentioned.

There was a liveliness to the music that astonished him. There were plenty of strange, startlingly visual sound effects that greatly amused him. Moreover, the merry duets of the solo cellist and the first viola, an animated discussion between Don Quixote and his faithful servant, were full of humour and eloquence, giving John a very concrete idea of what they were bickering about, Don Quixote all high and mighty erudite, Sancho Panza rather crude and full of proverbs.

He found it a lot easier to follow the music than he had during the first half of the concert. For he easily identified with the story and delighted in the score's many wonders and surprises, such as the ride through the air, which wouldn't have been amiss as a soundtrack in one of the Harry Potter films. Here the heroes seemed to take flight, feasting on ideals and dreams, riding towards a better world, and for a minute maybe, or two, which seemed like an eternity, everything was possible.

But of course they crashed, rudely awakened to a heavy-footed, forbidding reality. The last gasp of rebellion, of life, then Don Quixote's strength and spirits were broken.

A heart-rending cello solo followed. The cellist gently hugged his instrument and cradled it like a baby, charming the most beautiful and most despondent sounds from it that John had ever heard. It was a goodbye to all dreams and ideals, a goodbye to youth and hope, a goodbye to life. A plea for forgiveness and understanding. A manifestation of repentance. And yet the beauty of the music affirmed all that was denied and made it immortal.

By the end of the rendition, John's eyes were full of tears. Glancing sideways, he saw that his friend's eyes also glistened suspiciously.

He would have liked to hug him and never let go, not until the world stopped abhorring Sherlock for being different or at least not until he had so far transcended his own limits as to make his friend feel less alone and alien. But he could neither block out his personal limits, making it impossible for him to close the gap between them in anything but affection, nor could he ignore the exterior barriers of being in a public place. Therefore he expressed all that he felt with a quick squeeze of hands and the rapid procurement of a cab that a dozen other concertgoers tried to hire likewise.

Back at 221B, John made his friend sit down on the sofa with him and poured out two glasses of brandy. The brandy had magically found its way onto their cramped coffee table while they'd been out. John strongly suspected that this was Mrs Hudson's doing. A traitorous whiff of lavender clung to the bottle. He made a mental note to thank her the next morning.

'We should get Mrs Hudson a different air refresher. I hate lavender. It always makes me think of old, yellowish skin and decay,' Sherlock complained, taking a sip of his brandy.

John chuckled.

'Considering how much time you spend around corpses, I wouldn't have taken you for the squeamish sort.'

'I don't mind the clean, unmingled smell of putrefaction. It's always preferable to lavender in my opinion.'

'Not sure that Mrs Hudson would agree,' John grinned. 'Oh, by the way, as we're already speaking of gory things, Molly's got some fresh toes for you.'

On hearing this, Sherlock's quicksilver eyes narrowed in concentration. His mouth twitched ominously, making John wonder and fear what was to come next.

'If I wanted to go to Bart's right now,' the consulting detective inquired in dangerously soft tones, 'and on my own – would you let me?'

John froze next to him. He gulped nervously, not knowing what to say.

Eventually, he admitted in a low voice, 'No. No, I wouldn't.'

His friend sighed and leant back, his face frustratingly blank. Only the glass of brandy shook slightly in his hand.

'You don't trust me,' he said quietly. 'The Yarders get it right just once and now you've lost all faith in me.'

'Sherlock!' John exclaimed anxiously. 'It's not what you think. I trust you in everything but in your own safety! Doesn't matter to me whether McFarlane's guilty or not. I won't think less of you or of your extraordinary mind for getting something wrong.'

His friend shuddered at the ominous word 'wrong' and emptied his brandy in one gulp, downing a second one immediately afterwards. Then he squared his shoulders and faced John with an intimidatingly raw and determined expression.

'I was – wrong,' he said slowly, as if the word left a strange and foreign taste on his tongue, 'I underestimated him. Doesn't happen to me, normally. I look at people and see everything. Everything. Often I don't want to see all that they're so desperately trying to hide, all their shabby little faults and secrets. But I can't help it. I just see it all. And yet – something in McFarlane clearly eluded me. You know he's not the first – the first that I underrated. You know how _that_ ended. I vowed to myself that _that_ would never happen again. And yet – it has.'

The tremors in his hand increased and he hastily poured himself another brandy.

John was torn between concern, knowing how little his friend was used to excessive drinking, and curiosity, since this would be his only opportunity to get his friend to actually talk. What clinched it for him was the realisation that Sherlock would not be sitting here with him, giving himself Dutch courage, if he didn't have the deep desire to articulate at least once all his doubts, demons and tribulations.

So John didn't attempt to stop him from draining his third brandy and gave him all the silent support that attentive, compassionate listening can afford.

'I underestimated Jim. All the way to our last meeting. I knew that he was intent on destroying me and I was prepared for everything – save his suicide. To the last I thought that we were playing a game that one of us might win – and that gave me hope, that I might be the one. I knew that I _could_ outwit him. I never thought that neither of us would be a winner. That we would both lose. But he was prepared to do everything, even losing, just to prevent me from winning. I never foresaw that. I was prepared to jump. But I never foresaw all those months…'

He ran his trembling fingers across his face, breathing erratically, shaking his head as if he still couldn't really believe all that had happened.

'It's alright, shhh,' John murmured soothingly, 'it's alright.'

He guided his friend into a more comfortable position, allowing him to stretch out on the sofa with his head in John's lap. Gently, John ran his deft physician's fingers through the dark curls. Sherlock sighed contently and slowly calmed down.

Several minutes passed in companionable silence.

Then Sherlock said in a low voice, 'You were right, you know. I _do_ miss him. Not the way you think, though. The puzzles were brilliant, yes, but there are still some interesting cases out there. The one we worked on seemed very promising. If only the solution hadn't been the obvious one. I'm not afraid of being unemployed in a world post-Moriarty. What I miss is his _appreciation_.'

John was so surprised that he momentarily forgot to pet his friend's curls.

'Sorry,' he muttered, recovering himself and resumed his soothing caresses.

'Don't be. And don't be offended, either, if you can help it. He was my equal, the only one apart from Mycroft. He valued my mind _very_ highly. So highly, in fact, that he desperately needed to destroy me. It was gratifying. I didn't notice the lack of it while I was away, being far too busy, but I've felt it since and, yes, I've been grieving for it.'

Something broke inside John at this quiet confession. He would never have thought of this himself but upon hearing it, it seemed perfectly natural.

Sherlock was no superior, self-satisfied iceman. He yearned to be loved and accepted and appreciated. His pleasure at John's praise had been ample proof of that. But of course, John's admiration could never be enough because John with his everyday mind didn't have the power to appreciate his friend's genius the way he deserved. The appreciation that only an equal mind could give.

And Mycroft, clever, cold, self-sufficient Mycroft, who had probably never desired appreciation himself and censured his little brother for playing detective, refused to grant it. Not out of ill-will, for John knew that despite all his faults Mycroft would never deny his younger sibling anything, but out of ignorance. Mycroft had raised Sherlock to be like him, certainly thought that Sherlock was like him and never considered the possibility that he might be in need of a different career and a different approach, that a simple, proud 'Well done!' might be more welcome than the offer of a knighthood.

Jim Moriarty had stepped into the void and provided acknowledgement of every single one of Sherlock's merits in deadly, threatening plenty. Now he was dead and with him all recognition. John felt crushingly sorry for not being able to fill the gap.

'Don't be sorry,' Sherlock insisted, three brandies and a face full of John's jumper not lessening his mind-reading skills in the least.

The next words were so quiet that John rather felt them against his jumper than actually heard them.

'It's not so very bad. Those months away were really bad – for then I missed _you_.'


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

When John woke, he felt momentarily disoriented.

The gentle, warming massage of sunrays in his neck told him that it was already morning, meaning that he must actually have fallen asleep at some point last night. On opening his eyes, he found himself on the sofa in their living room with his best friend's head in his lap.

Gradually, the events of last night came back to him. Apart from the inevitable soreness of neck and leg, he had no reason to regret having spent the night like this. His sleep had been deep, dreamless and refreshing and a couple of twists and turns of his neck and a bit of rubbing his thighs ought to restore him to perfectly good health. On top of that, he had somehow persuaded Sherlock to sleep for several hours, something that could never be regretted on an average day, and definitely not after the trials that they had faced.

John gently extracted himself, careful not to wake his friend, and went to make himself a cup of tea in the kitchen. While he waited for the kettle to boil, he decided to check his mobile.

He had turned it off when they had reached the concert hall the previous evening and had forgotten to switch it on again. Maybe it was just as well – because a number unknown to him had tried to call him several times in the middle of the night. Probably a person too drunk to know who they were calling.

Having prepared his tea, he hopped downstairs to fetch the newspaper, only to be assaulted by his own face on the front page. Over it was printed in scathingly bold letters: _THE SERIAL DATER_.

It took him a moment to convince himself that he wasn't imagining things, that he wasn't dreaming, that he was indeed perfectly awake. Having pinched himself hard enough to wince with pain, there was nothing but to accept what was right in front of him. He had made the front page of The Sun.

Where soap stars and WAGs usually flaunted their famous faces, his old hat portrait was now displayed. The theatre cap, once worn to shield his face from the waiting reporters, now gave him a rather devious, audacious look that corresponded well with the sensational headline. Next to the old photograph was another picture, this one startlingly new, starring him and Sherlock as they left Southbank Centre.

It was horrifying. First the assault when they'd left NSY yesterday afternoon, now this gross disregard for their privacy! But the author of the article was Kitty Riley, sure enough, and no respect of privacy or even truth was ever to be expected of her.

With a sickening sort of curiosity John began to read:

_Bogus Bachelor Debunked_

_ Debauched and dishonourably discharged ex-army doctor John Watson (41), best known as the companion of fraudulent super-sleuth Sherlock Holmes (36), has at last been caught in the act with his criminal colleague. Last night they were seen leaving Southbank Centre holding hands (see picture above). Concertgoers report an alarming amount of touching and petting took place within the halls. Watson always denied being in a relationship with Holmes._

_Since his return from his deployment in Afghanistan, Watson has ruthlessly pursued London's finest single women. 'He makes George Clooney's string of girlfriends seem plain vanilla. He changes chicks so quickly that he keeps on confusing them,' a close friend revealed. He also hinted that Watson was cheating on his innocent girlfriends with Holmes, 'I think they've been shagging ever since they first met.'_

_However, the sinister extent of the relations between the vicious pair has only now come to light. Where Watson supported Holmes in self-fashioning himself into the universally admired crime-solving boffin, Holmes assisted apparent bachelor Watson in fulfilling his dark and unnatural sexual fantasies. An ex-girlfriend, still heavily traumatised by the heinous discoveries that she made during her relationship with Watson, disclosed, 'When I entered 221B Baker Street I faced unspeakable horrors.'_

_Many women's terrible ordeals might have been prevented, if it had been known that Watson has been treated for behavioural disorder for several years. MP Ronald Rex has now announced to introduce a new bill in parliament next week on the reform of medical confidentiality in order to protect the British public from particularly dangerous individuals. 'It's a disgrace and another striking failure on the government's part. Cameron really needs to act now!'_

_Turn to page 4 for more details._

John felt no need to read on and furiously crumpled up the newspaper instead.

He knew that Kitty Riley's accusations were insubstantial. Actually, the fact that she hadn't been able to get most of his girlfriends to talk to her was strongly in his favour. The only one to have spoken to Kitty Riley had complained of nothing worse than the horrors of their kitchen. The misunderstanding would have been funny, if the meaning hadn't been twisted into something much, much worse.

Kitty Riley had been clever enough not to openly accuse him of something that was libellous, instead sticking to vague phrases which might evoke everything from harmless threesomes to gruesome gang-rape. And there was nothing he could do to set it right. It would hardly do to turn to the press and announce, 'I don't have any peculiar sexual kinks, I only keep body parts in the fridge.'

The few people whose opinion mattered to him wouldn't pay any attention to this rubbish. But the impact that was to be expected on passing and eventual new acquaintances was a lot more dangerous. They wouldn't necessarily believe it, but they would always think of this article now whenever they saw him, whether they wanted to or not.

If he ever applied for work at a clinic again, his potential employers wouldn't have to do a lengthy Facebook-check to find something incriminating against him now. And it would become impossible for him to find a new girlfriend. Well, Sherlock would be pleased about that at least.

But thinking of Sherlock – _oh God, Sherlock!_ Under no circumstances was Sherlock to see the article. Being in low spirits anyway, it would do him no good whatsoever to be confronted with fresh evidence of how much the pair of them were despised by the British public.

John was about to sneak outside to bin the odious newspaper, when Mrs Hudson appeared in the corridor, her face harried, a copy of The Sun in her hands.

'John? Did you see this?' she asked in an anxious whisper.

He nodded, clenching his jaw.

'Is it true?'

He gaped at her in horror. Mrs Hudson was the last person he'd ever have expected to believe in the twisted lies that Kitty Riley spread about them.

'Oh dear, don't be like that,' she hastily amended. 'I don't mean all that Casanova and sex stuff, dear me. Really, dear. No, I mean, you and Sherlock – Last night, when I came home from my dinner with that lovely bakery owner – you know, from the bakery at the corner – such a nice man – it was lovely – well, it turned quite late – anyway, when I came back, I checked in on you dear boys and you were all cuddly on the sofa. So - ?'

'Nothing like that, no,' John explained with a quick shake of his head. 'We had a bad day, well, Sherlock, mostly. Scotland Yard solved the case, more or less.'

'Oh you poor dears!' Mrs Hudson exclaimed compassionately. 'So last night was a danger night?'

John nodded and sighed.

'I'm sorry I wasn't there to assist you. If I'd known, I wouldn't have gone out. Was it alright? Did you manage to keep the poor boy from doing something bad?'

'No, no, don't worry, Mrs H, we were quite all right. Nothing worse happened than a couple of glasses of brandy. Thanks for that, by the way.'

'Did you find it? Did you like it? Mr Peechoho, my friend, the bakery owner, you know, he gave me several bottles. He's been to Spain and brought back a whole crate. He says there's nothing better than Spanish brandy. I wouldn't know, dear, though I had some when I was baking and it was quite delicious. Don't look at me like that – as a doctor you ought to know that a glass here and there is very good for one's health.'

John chuckled.

'Well, anyway, thank you, we put it to good use last night, I think.'

Sobering, he added, 'I need to get rid of this. Can I bin yours, too? I don't want Sherlock to see this.'

Mrs Hudson handed him her Sun and John quickly disposed of both copies.

Back upstairs, they found Sherlock up and about, seemingly unimpaired by the amount of brandy he'd consumed the previous night.

Being the intelligent and troublesome creature that he was, he immediately asked after their morning paper. John didn't even get so far as to lie to him about how it had somehow not been delivered, before his flatmate had already bolted outside and fished it back out of the bin.

Coming back inside, Sherlock quickly scanned the front page and frowned.

'You didn't want me to see this?'

'Yes,' John admitted.

'But why?'

It was an honest question. Childlike and simple. It made John's heart clench again.

'I thought it would upset you.'

'It's worse on you than it's on me, don't you agree?'

'It's not particularly complimentary on either of us.'

Thoughtfully, Sherlock said, 'You do realise that people wouldn't say such horrible things about you if you wouldn't stick with me.'

'Yeah, well, you can always make it up to me,' John joked lazily.

Sherlock stared at him, looking both perplexed and uncomfortable. Blushing and squirming slightly, he mumbled, 'John… I did tell you …'

John shook his head, laughing.

'You great twat, I meant nothing of the sort! You can make up all the horrible things that Kitty Riley may come up with by promising to call me an idiot only once a day and then I'll take that as a compliment.'

Sherlock grinned.

'We might have to lay down a couple of exceptions for days when you're being particularly obtuse.'

'Hey!' John protested and pinched him playfully in the arm.

Just then, the doctor's phone began to ring.

'I hope it's not that stranger again who tried to call me all last night. A stalker's the last thing I need right now. – Oh no, it's just Lestrade. – Hi Greg,' he said, picking up the call.

'Put him on loudspeaker!' Sherlock insisted and John complied.

'John – Sherlock –' Lestrade greeted them. 'There've been certain developments. I'm going to call Mrs Oldacre now. She deserves closure and I didn't want her to find out through the press. And well, I also thought you ought to know in advance. We did a thorough search of McFarlane's flat early this morning and found a vial containing the poison. We –'

At that point, John stopped listening to Lestrade.

Just as the detective inspector had mentioned their finding this new and damning piece of evidence, a feverish gleam had suddenly appeared in Sherlock's quicksilver eyes. It was a gleam that John knew only too well. A gleam that he had missed during the last months. A gleam of triumph and exuberance and complete clarity that could mean only one thing: Sherlock had solved the case!

'John – John – are you still there?' Lestrade was asking through the phone. 'I'm sorry, for what it's worth – well, anyway, thank you for your input with the case, all the same – I'd better call Mrs Oldacre now – '

'Lestrade, you might want to wait a little before calling her,' Sherlock intercepted imperiously.

'What do you mean?' the detective inspector asked, his voice completely changed, all curiosity and expectation.

He knew his consulting detective well enough not to mistake his imperative manner.

'You might save yourself a second call to correct the first, obviously,' Sherlock said languidly.

He was enjoying himself. John rolled his eyes, if only half-heartedly. He'd missed his friend's narcissistic theatrics far too much.

'Then tell me what I'm to tell her,' Lestrade insisted.

'Not just yet. We'll be at the Yard in two hours.'

'Sherlock!' Lestrade protested.

'Two hours, Lestrade!'

'Okay, okay,' the detective inspector consented and disconnected the call.

'Couldn't you just have told him now?' John asked with a wide grin.

'No, I still need to do a little bit of research first. Give me your phone!'

'Why can't you use yours?'

'Well, yours is just there,' Sherlock smirked and John handed it over without any further protest.

From Sherlock's perspective, the next two hours passed extremely quickly as he found himself delightfully busy, tying up all the loose ends of the case. From John's, they seemed like an eternity, because his genius flatmate wouldn't tell him anything.

He was brimming with excitement but knew better than to press for explanations now. After all that had happened, Sherlock deserved more than a little bit of showing-off at the Yard. And John was ready to wait another eternity and then to express 'brilliant' once again in every variant available to the English language, once Sherlock was finally ready to present his solution. And if he tore of all Scotland Yard's officers to pieces in the process, John wouldn't interfere, either.

'Morning freak,' Sally greeted them with a sneer when they entered New Scotland Yard at the appointed time. 'You're looking all pleased. Did he give you a good shag last night?'

Clearly, she had been reading The Sun, too.

John's eyes flared up in indignation. His hands automatically curled into fists. He was incensed by Sergeant Donovan's implications. Mentioning sex in such a casual, derisive, dirty way in front of Sherlock Holmes, pure and innocent like a child where such matters were concerned, seemed nothing short of sacrilegious.

But before John got the chance of verbally or physically attacking Sally, Sherlock had already replied, nonchalant, impervious, superior as always, 'I'm just pleased at being able to prove you wrong.'

And without a further glance at her, he strode into Lestrade's office. John and Donovan followed on his heels.

'Freak thinks we're wrong,' Sally announced contemptuously. 'Didn't you call him, sir, to inform him that the poison which killed Jonas Oldacre was discovered in McFarlane's flat?'

'Amazing,' the world's only consulting detective sneered before Lestrade could get a word in edgeways.

'Amazing?' Donovan repeated uncertainly.

'Yes, Sally, it's truly amazing that you've ever managed to solve a single case when you derive such tremendous pleasure from clinging to false impressions and conclusions.'

'False conclusions?' Donovan spluttered.

'Sherlock, please explain,' Lestrade cut in.

'Do you really need me to spell it out? The fact that you found the poison in the flat proves that McFarlane is innocent,' Sherlock stated with a triumphant smile.

'And why?' Lestrade asked, beginning to feel slightly exasperated, a reaction that Sherlock's presence always evoked, no matter how hard he tried not to give in to it.

'Because I know that the poison wasn't there when John and I had a look at the flat two days ago.'

'Do you have any proof of that?' Sally asked harshly, and added, turning to Lestrade, 'Look, sir, he could just be making this up. I told you from the beginning that he might be involved in this.'

Sergeant Donovan's stubborn conviction that Sherlock Holmes was a criminal and a fraud exasperated the detective inspector even more than the consulting detective's arrogant display of his own brilliance.

Ignoring her, he inquired, 'If the poison wasn't there, then who put it there now?'

'Thank goodness there's at least one person within these incompetent quarters who occasionally asks the right questions,' Sherlock muttered with a mocking smile.

John snorted approvingly.

There was a short pause. Sherlock looked at them all, smiling in the smart-alecky way that he had perfected over the years, and waited, reminding John of a vain actor who has come on stage and refuses to begin his lines until he can feel everybody's eyes and ears riveted on him.

'Oh for God's sake!' Lestrade finally exclaimed, no longer able to contain his impatience. 'Is there any chance of you sharing this with us before all of us have fossilised?'

'No need to be so overly dramatic, Lestrade,' the consulting detective reprimanded with a smirk, as if he weren't aware of his own blatant theatrics.

Then, at last, he deigned to let them in on what he knew.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

'Are you just making this up?' Sally interrupted him after some time, not really listening to his explanations, while Lestrade asked, 'How do you know all that?'

'By observing and doing research, as you ought to have done,' Sherlock replied, choosing to answer to Lestrade only.

'We did some very thorough research, you know,' Donovan said angrily.

Much as John hated her, he couldn't help but understand her anger. She had invested years and years of training to become a competent and professional police officer, only to be constantly thwarted by an amateur who ridiculed the skills that she had developed with blood, sweat and tears.

'If by _thorough_ you mean locking up an innocent man who happened to be your first suspect, then yes,' Sherlock retorted sardonically.

'Don't pretend you care!' Sally screamed, fully furious now. 'You're a cold, calculating sociopath. You never care about the people involved. You're only interested in the puzzle!'

Sherlock's eyes flashed dangerously and he said in a tight voice, 'Well, the puzzle is solved now.'

'And where's the proof of that? What's there to back up your cock and bull story? You've never experienced all those grand feelings of love and guilt that you claim are the prime motives in our case. It's ridiculous. How are we to believe you? McFarlane did some research on murdering Oldacre and went back to give him the pen, after all. And tried to conceal this from us. That's a fact. Are you trying to help McFarlane conceal his murder with this elaborated fairy tale?'

'I'd gladly help you convict McFarlane of murder. He's a pathetic human being who follows a stupidly twisted codex of behaviour in order to be considered a member of the upper-class. He thinks it's an even graver threat to his honour to be thought a thief than a murderer, that's why he didn't mention the pen.'

'Sounds very twisted to me,' Sally snapped.

'Shouldn't you just ask Ms Vaughn to confirm what Sherlock said? She's still in the building, didn't you say that? Go and fetch her! Hell, didn't anybody teach you how to do your job?' John interrupted, feeling it was time that he stepped into this nasty conversation, as Lestrade was somehow too stunned to do so. 'Sherlock's deductions are usually right and she can easily prove it.'

However, his words did nothing to appease Sally Donovan. Additionally, they seemed to have hurt Sherlock. Maybe he should have exchanged _usually_ for _always_. The regret at having said all the wrong things, which he had felt far too frequently during the last couple of days, welled up inside him again.

'Of course his deductions are right when he's the one who invented the crimes in the first place!' Sally ranted on. 'He's done this before, remember? Pretending there's a big criminal mastermind named Moriarty out there and then it turns out that there's no Moriarty and he's the one who's done all the killing.'

'Donovan!' Lestrade exclaimed furiously, while John shouted, 'Oi, stop it, just stop it!'

'It would be cruel to ask Sergeant Donovan to stop when at least once in her career she's not completely off the mark,' Sherlock remarked in a low voice.

Undoubtedly, he was trying for his trademark tone of biting sarcasm. However, he missed by a mile. He sounded sad.

'It's true, there's no Moriarty now and I killed several people.'

Lestrade turned away his head, swallowing forcefully. John felt a stabbing, constricting pain in his chest. Once more, he wished he could just go to Sherlock and take him in his arms and tell him that everything was alright. Even Sally seemed too stunned to speak.

Being the first to recover, Lestrade made arrangements for Ms Vaughn to be escorted to his office. A moment later, Sibyl Vaughn made her appearance.

John was actually shocked when he saw her. She looked so much worse than she had during their first interview, even though that had been but two days ago. Her complexion was unhealthily sallow and there were dark shadows beneath her eyes. Her hands were shaking uncontrollably. Her clothes and her hair were in slight disarray, as though she hadn't changed and washed in the morning.

Everything that had been pretty or sweet about her had been completely drained away. It was as if her nervous fingers had clawed away all her skin, exposing the tingling, dark nerve fibres underneath. She seemed in desperate need of some kind of psychiatric treatment.

'Ms Vaughn, we need to interview you yet again in reference to the murder of Jonas Oldacre,' Lestrade addressed her. 'You've been accused of poisoning him.'

Sibyl's shoulders sagged slightly. It might have been defeat, but John suspected that there was more relief to it.

'Everything that Mr Holmes says is correct,' Sybil said quietly.

'Is this a confession?'

'Yes.'

'Can you elaborate on this?'

'What is there to elaborate? Isn't it enough to say that I killed him?'

'Not quite, no. Can you tell us what happened?'

She blinked and nervously ran her fingers through her hair.

'I loved him,' she cried, tears rolling down her face. 'I loved him and we were happy. Then I was pregnant, suddenly. It was unplanned. He didn't want the child. He didn't want anybody to know about our affair, his wife especially. But I wouldn't abort. I'm against abortion, I think it's murder. Christ! How does that sound with _me_ saying it?' she sobbed.

John gave her a tissue and a compassionate smile.

She tried to calm herself and continued, 'When he understood that I wouldn't do anything to get rid of the child, he tried to – tried to – well, he slipped abortive herbs into my food. But I always noticed and didn't eat any of it. So then he turned to more drastic measures…'

She started sobbing again.

'Oldacre made a special appointment with Clean & Clear, not the cleaning business that usually comes to the building on Saturdays, Brown & Jackson's Facility Maintenance,' Sherlock explained, seeing Sibyl Vaughn couldn't go on. 'He had their visit timed so that the stairs would still be wet and slippery by the time Ms Vaughn left the office, knowing full well that she was the only person to ever take the stairs. Ms Vaughn fell down the stairs and miscarried, just like he had intended.'

John gasped in shock. What audacious cruelty on Oldacre's part! He had taken the risk of having his lover die just to ensure that the child was dead.

Lestrade was visibly shaken, too.

'You knew of his involvement in your accident?' he asked, in a much gentler voice.

Sibyl nodded.

'When I woke up in hospital, my nurse told me that my boss had popped in to inquire after me. But all he'd actually asked was, "Is the child dead?" He never came to see me. That's when I knew.'

'So then you plotted to poison him once you were well enough to return to work.'

Wearily, Sibyl shook her head.

'It wasn't like that, no. I wanted to poison myself. I was so – miserable. I'd never planned on having a baby. I hadn't really wanted a baby, I think. But then – at that moment – when my child was _dead _– I realised that I'd wanted it – wanted and loved it so dearly – only to never have it,' she sobbed. 'I just wanted to die! There was no happiness for me without my child. The world seemed so bleak and suffocating, all of a sudden.'

'In the end, you didn't kill yourself, though.'

'True. I waited until I was back at the office. I wanted to see Jonas again. I wanted closure. I hated him so much, every day, when I was at the hospital. And before, I'd loved him so dearly! It didn't make sense. I wanted to see him once again to see if I'd really been that deluded. And then I saw him – and realised I hadn't been. I still loved him. He was still the man I loved. And at the same time he was the monster that I hated, the monster that had killed my child. He had no right to! No right! How could he do that?'

Her voice cracked.

'I couldn't forgive him, but I couldn't stop loving him, either. So – I killed him. Killed the part of him that I hated, to be able to love the memory of him. And it worked. In the beginning. When I came to office on Thursday and he was dead, I felt so calm and relieved. I could grieve for him. I could cry for him. I was able to forgive him for what he'd done. It was _heavenly_… What I'd failed to realise, though, was that I would never be able to forgive myself.'

John listened to Sibyl's confession in horrified silence. It didn't make sense to him at first.

Her emotions and reasoning seemed unreal, high-strung, worthy of a Dostoevskian heroine, maybe, but out-of-place in a down-to-earth secretary in the 21st century. Taking into account how alone she had been, full of grief and depression and confusion over the loss of her child, even the strangest, psychologically most twisted feelings seemed plausible, though. Sally Donovan, who had been surprisingly quiet so far, now intervened.

'Why did you frame McFarlane for the murder? Everything seems carefully planned out – the murder taking place right after he'd threatened to kill Oldacre. Maybe there was more calculation than confusion to your actions?'

'For goodness' sake, she never framed McFarlane!' Sherlock exclaimed angrily. 'An unhappy coincidence, nothing more. She only came back to the office that day. She knew nothing of McFarlane's dismissal when she added the poison to the ink. No doubt she thought that nobody would inquire much into Oldacre's death. There are enough workaholics who die of heart attacks in their late fifties. And if anybody investigating had been clever enough to discover the poison, they would in all likelihood have jumped to the conclusion that it was suicide. Unforeseen by Ms Vaughn, McFarlane later came and had his big argument with Oldacre. Next morning, Oldacre was discovered dead – and in the light of McFarlane's threat, the first thing that everybody thought of was murder, of course.'

'That doesn't explain why she didn't confess to the crime after hearing that McFarlane had been arrested,' Sally said angrily.

Part of the anger was no doubt directed against herself for having once again arrested the wrong man.

'She came here to bring him fresh clothes for his further stay, just this morning! And if I understood correctly what you said at the beginning, she also placed the poison in his flat.'

'Ms Vaughn, did you place the poison in McFarlane's flat in order to make sure that he was convicted of the crime that you'd committed?' Lestrade asked carefully.

Sibyl rubbed her shaking hands over her tear-stained cheeks, looking confused and miserable.

'If you put it like that… I must have, yes,' she whispered.

'No, you didn't!' Sherlock insisted.

'She didn't,' he added, turning back to Lestrade. 'Ms Vaughn merely meant to inform Mrs Oldacre of her deed before turning herself in. She has been to see her on Thursday night, where John and I met her, and failing to work up the courage to confess, she went back last night, but she still couldn't bring herself to say it. So she tried calling John for advice early this morning, but his phone was turned off. He has a curious appeal to women in distress. I don't know why, it's terribly annoying. Anyway, knowing that McFarlane would be detained here until she turned herself in, she went to fetch him some clothes to ensure that he would be comfortable until she'd finally told Mrs Oldacre.'

'Why is Mrs Oldacre so important?' Lestrade asked, visibly out of his depth.

'She is the best friend I have. She's always been wonderfully kind to me. And I…' Sibyl hesitated and swallowed nervously. 'I owed it to her to tell her personally. I didn't want her to find out through the newspapers. But I've been such a coward. I didn't want to lose her friendship. It's all… all I had left.'

Sibyl put her head in hands.

'You delude yourself if you think that your friend needed any telling. She always knew. Or that the knowledge of what you'd done would cost you her friendship,' Sherlock assured her in an unnaturally kind voice.

Sibyl lifted her head, her eyes shining with tears and hope.

'You think so?'

'I'm sure of it.'

'Thank you,' she said with a ghost of a smile. 'Bless you.'

Thinking back to how callous Mrs Oldacre had been about her husband's death and how she had started to cry when Sibyl's baby was mentioned, John now realised that Sherlock was probably right.

'But what about the poison?' Lestrade interrupted. 'I'm assuming you placed it there this morning when you fetched clothes for McFarlane?'

The smile on Sibyl Vaughn's face quickly faded.

'I … I must have,' she said slowly.

That she would use the same construction again struck John as odd.

'It was an accident,' Sherlock explained.

'Another one?' Donovan scoffed. 'Your deductions today rely heavily on a string of coincidences, in case you haven't noticed.'

'In case _you_ haven't noticed, Ms Vaughn's sanity and general well-being have deteriorated rapidly since she committed the crime. She tried to get rid of the poison this morning, but due to her heavy confusion and temporary blanks in awareness, she dropped her mobile phone into Thames instead. She left the poison at McFarlane's flat, no doubt not even aware of the fact that she still had it.'

'And you expect us to believe that?'

Sherlock sighed wearily.

'All I'm asking is that you take a look at the surveillance videos that I asked to have delivered to you, showing Ms Vaughn at the Thames early this morning. That should be enough even for you to be convinced and to tie up the case.'

He was speaking in a both hasty and hesitant voice, as if he wanted nothing more than to get out of Lestrade's office as quickly as possible. The happy gleam in his eyes announcing that the case was solved had vanished. He looked defeated. John didn't like it at all, most of all because he could think of nothing to say that could possibly make it any better.

'In fact the tapes are here right now,' a well-known oily voice rang through the room.

Everybody spun round to see Mycroft Holmes standing in the doorway, leaning on his umbrella.

'I really hope you don't require any instructions as to what to do with them, Sergeant Donovan.'

Sally flinched, sensing the threat beneath the polite and polished comment. Without her usual snappy come-back, almost demurely, she accepted the tapes and set to work.

Meanwhile, Sherlock swept out of the office without another word. Mycroft followed him.

Half a corridor further down, Sherlock assaulted his brother, 'Why are you here, Mycroft?'

'You know perfectly well why I'm here, unless you're suddenly suffering from severe memory loss, God forbid. Didn't you ask me for the tapes yourself this morning?'

Impatiently, Sherlock rolled his eyes.

'There was no need for you to bring them here yourself.'

'And what deduction do you make from this?'

'You're checking up on me, as always. Because you don't trust me.'

'I'm worried about you.'

'That's exactly the same thing, just phrased a little more euphemistically.'

'Not exactly. I do trust you, I just don't trust anybody else where're you're concerned.'

'Why?' Sherlock asked curiously, his eyes widening like a child's.

'Because they're hurting you, constantly. And I can't bear to see you upset.'

Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes.

'No need to get sentimental, dear brother,' he scoffed. 'Just tell me what you want.'

'I just did.'

'_Fine_. What else did you want?'

'Is there something I can do? Apart from ordering all those hateful journalists now camped outside NSY to be assassinated?'

His younger brother failed to hide an amused smirk.

'Really, Mycroft, hearing you talk like that, one would never assume that you were the British government and not the Russian.'

'Democracy is clearly overrated,' Mycroft said drily, twisting the tip of his umbrella in a way that demonstrated how well satisfied he was with his less democratic inclinations.

'There is something you could do, though,' Sherlock said, sobering. 'Get your friend Louisa Oldacre to visit Sibyl and make sure that this case gets as little publicity as possible.'

Mycroft's brow creased. His baby brother never asked him for anything. Thus this must be really important to him.

He sighed, but kept his voice light as he concluded, 'I presume this is to protect dear Ms Vaughn? How sweet of you.'

'Don't be ridiculous. She's no criminal, though, and she doesn't need the press to turn her into one.'

'She did kill a man, Sherlock.'

'He wasn't a very nice man.'

'How moralistic of you. As is everything you do of late,' he said and shook his head, somewhat sadly. 'You're all set to create a world that's good rather than interesting. Everything to please your _friends_. But where's _your_ place in that world? I know what you're giving up, Sherlock, what you've given up, and I cannot help but doubt it's worth it.'

'Of course it's worth it,' Sherlock muttered, not sounding particularly convincing.

'Honestly, Sherlock, I don't deny that I've always hoped that you would come to lead a different style of life. But in the end, I just want you to be happy. And now all you do is upsetting yourself, robbing yourself of everything you strive for - for this ungrateful _riff-raff_.'

'They're certainly no riff-raff, Mycroft,' his younger brother corrected him angrily. 'Don't say that, and they're not ungrateful, either. They just don't know.'

'Don't know what?'

Surprised, both Holmes brothers spun around to find John at the end of the corridor.

'It doesn't matter,' Sherlock muttered quickly, while at the same time Mycroft answered, 'That he jumped off that roof for you.'

John blinked quickly, taking in this new piece of information.

He shoved aside all emotions that accompanied the realisation in favour of asking in an amazingly casual voice, 'Who else did he threaten, apart from me?'

Sherlock smiled, glad at this fresh proof of John's intelligence.

'How do you know that he threatened anyone else?'

'Well, I may not be you,' John grinned, 'but we always knew that he would threaten me to get to you, so if you'd deduced that only I was in danger, you wouldn't have sent me across London on a made-up errand, you would've hidden me away somewhere and wouldn't have had to jump. So I'm guessing that you knew that several people were threatened, several being more difficult to protect than just one. But you didn't know beforehand exactly which people he had chosen, making it difficult to plan anything other than your fake suicide.'

'Spot on, John. You're in sparkling form today,' Sherlock's light eyes twinkled with pleasure.

'So who else was it?'

Mycroft remained pointedly silent.

'Mrs Hudson and Lestrade,' Sherlock sighed.

'And you didn't plan on telling us, you nitwit,' John exhaled slowly, shaking his head.

Sherlock watched him with an expression of concern and asked tensely, 'Not good?'

John smiled despite himself, half amused, half sad, and shook his head again.

'No, Sherlock, it's fine. It's better than fine. But it's still kind of idiotic. Why didn't you want us to know? Why did you prefer to let us all think that you'd been gallivanting about destroying his network for your own pleasure?'

Thoughtfully, Sherlock placed his steepled hands under his chin in his usual thinking pose.

After a short silence, he replied carefully, 'I didn't want you to feel obliged to –' he hesitated, 'to be friends with me again.'

'_Obliged_?' John repeated disbelievingly. 'Oh Sherlock!'

This time he didn't contain himself and all but threw himself at Sherlock, hugging him tightly until Mycroft Holmes loudly cleared his throat.

'I'll see to it that the waiting rabble outside is dispersed and that a car awaits you there,' he said, turning to leave. 'And don't forget lunch next Sunday, Sherlock.'

'Get the reporters to rehabilitate Sherlock, will you? Get Kitty Riley to write about what an amazing super brain Sherlock is!' John demanded. 'All that power of yours must be good for something, surely.'

Mycroft nodded curtly and disappeared.

Facing his friend, John said, 'Once Kitty Riley has to admit that she was wrong about you, we might actually lead our normal lives again, don't you think?'

'It won't be the same.'

'Why not?' John asked anxiously. 'Sherlock, you were amazing today! And soon everybody's going to believe that again.'

Seeing how Sherlock's face fell at his words, he suddenly understood.

'You didn't want it to be her, right?'

'It's just… before, all I ever did was solve the case. Uncover the truth. When I was away… it was different. It wasn't about the truth; it was about what was _right_. And now… I'm glad that Oldacre's dead. And yet I turned Sibyl in, even though she's unlikely to ever be a threat to anybody else.'

John wearily rubbed his hands across his hair and sighed.

He would have given almost everything to restore his friend's post-case exultation. This case would show the public all that Sherlock Holmes was capable of and would help to restore his reputation. It was a shame that it couldn't have the same healing effect on Sherlock. And John felt stupid for not having realised this before.

His genius flatmate would need more than one brilliantly solved case to reaccept his role as the world's only consulting detective. It had taken John quite a while to adjust from the battlefield to London's civil life. With Sherlock it wouldn't be different. And John only hoped that he'd be able to help him as much as his friend had helped him back then.

'John,' Sherlock hesitantly interrupted his musings.

His fingers were twitching nervously as if he didn't know what do to with them.

'Are we… You seem… _sad_. Are we okay?'

'Sure,' John replied casually, before he actually realised what Sherlock was asking him.

At once he gave his friend's hand a quick, reassuring squeeze and added, 'Yes, of course we're fine, we're better than fine.'

The brief look of relief on the consulting detective's face was immediately replaced by fresh anxiety.

'Then why are you sad?'

'I'm sad for your sake,' John answered.

'But why?'

John hesitated.

It wouldn't do, surely, to tell his best friend that it broke his heart to see him suffer, sweet man-child that he was, at having had to kill. Sherlock would never admit that it bothered him, anyway.

In the end, he settled for a simple, 'Because you're so very extraordinary and the world around you is just so ordinary.'

Sherlock blinked, looking a little confused, but didn't demand any further explanations.

In contrast to their exit from NSY the day before, they now left the building unbothered by reporters and quietly made their way back to the flat.

To their surprise, they found a client sitting in their living room, waiting for them. And not just any client, but a pretty woman in her early thirties, who now smiled at them and said, 'Hello, I'm Mary Morstan.'

[THE END]

* * *

So, this was it.

Sorry for the delay. Emergencies in the family and at the office kept me from writing. And since the update was already so very late, a waited a little further so that I'd be able to post the last chapter at the same time with the revised previous ones.

Thanks to all who stuck with me through the process of writing this story - your support has been most appreciated. All I can wish for now is some further feedback. So please - do review if you feel like it!

Those who liked this story might also be interested in knowing that I'm planning to write another one. It's going to be based on The Reigate Puzzle, because I've been meaning to write some intense sick!fic for a long, long time, and it's also going to incorporate Mary Morstan. I want to have my take on her before Moftiss and Amanda Abbington define her once and for all. I've already done quite a bit of plotting, but I'm still taking prompts. So if you have any suggestions as to what you'd like me to write, you're welcome to contact me and I can try to work them into the story.


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